


The Golden Hour

by GoldenTruth813



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aftercare, Alien Biology, Alien Cultural Differences, Aliens, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputee Shiro (Voltron), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bookstores, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Come Marking, Comfort, Emotional Sex, Falling In Love, Farmer Shiro, First Time, Galra Keith (Voltron), Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), Goats, Grocery Shopping, Hair Washing, Happy Ending, Heartbeats, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kitchen Sex, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, Love Confessions, M/M, Marking, Misunderstandings, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oreos, Overstimulation, Panic Attacks, Pining, Praise Kink, Purring Keith (Voltron), Riding, Romance, Scars, Self-Lubrication, Slick as Lube, Slow Burn, Small Towns, Switching, Top Keith (Voltron), Top Shiro (Voltron), Touch-Starved Shiro (Voltron), Virgin Shiro (Voltron), Wet & Messy, cooking as a love language, excessive keith thirst, happiness, rescue animals, vegetarian shiro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 74,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24665632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813
Summary: After a space mission failure, Shiro loses his arm and his career. Two years later he's settled into a quiet and simple new life on his farm, but when a beautiful alien crashes in his field, he discovers the answers to his questions—and possibly the keys to his future—will come from the stars.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 1009
Kudos: 751





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many people I need to thank for helping me along the way as this story took on a life of its own.
> 
> Boggremlin for helping me with all my baking questions, stardropdream for chatting vegetarian Shiro with me and helping me with food ideas, R & S for letting me scream about this fic daily, saiinis for supporting me daily with this fic and cheering me on (and so much help with the medical scenes!) and whiskyandwilfdlowers for being the world's most supportive and talented beta. And of course all my love to sasha who spent endless hours talking to me abouts farms and animals. <3
> 
> If you're worried about reading a WIP this fic is already completely written and edited and a new chapter with post every Monday/Thursday until fic is posted in full.
> 
> This fic started of as a small idea about galra keith crashing in Shiro's backyard and took on a life of its own. It's really been a labor of love for me and is so special to me and i'm so excited to finally be able to share it.

The midday sun beats down without mercy, making the tender skin at the back of Shiro’s neck and the top of his spine burn. Even for June it seems unseasonably hot, and Shiro wishes now he’d remembered to put on sunscreen before coming out here. He could trudge back up to the house but now that he’s in the midst of the second sowing of peas he doesn’t want to stop. He’d tossed his sun hat into the grass an hour ago when it wouldn’t stop falling off and had discarded his shirt when it was dripping wet with sweat twenty minutes later. He’s going to be sorry later once he showers off the sweat and grime and discovers the true extent of his time in the sun without protection. Not that he could’ve done much better even if he’d remembered the sunscreen. That’s the problem with living alone and having one arm, Shiro thinks—you can’t quite get at all the difficult and hard to reach spots. 

It would probably be easier if Shiro had kept his shirt on, or maybe even wore one of those ones with sun protection he’s been eying online. But Shiro still hasn’t gotten used to the way shirts like that feel. The material usually irritates his scar tissue. That, and Shiro finds the phantom limb pain worse when he can’t _see_ his lack of right arm. After the accident he’d gotten used to being shirtless for a multitude of reasons, from doctors tending to his bandages to physical therapy. It was easier for the doctors to treat his wounds, and then once those wounds had healed he found it easier to accept the loss of his limb if he didn’t hide it away beneath clothing. That and living alone makes it easy for Shiro to go without a shirt when he knows he’s likely to get really dirty. Less laundry that way.

Most people don’t like looking at the stump where his right arm used to be. People do anything but look at it, as if their avoidance of what's missing will spare Shiro from feeling awkward. Or they look too long, which usually ends up being even more awkward. The missing arm attracts attention and reminds people of his crash which often leads to a million questions the Garrison has made sure he can never answer. Shiro accepts that his right arm is never coming back. He’s still here, he’s alive, and he’s happy. 

Shiro has never been a solitary person by nature. A bit of an extroverted introvert sure, sometimes a little drained by socializing. But all in all he enjoys people. There was a time when he used to thrive on a sense of community and the satisfaction of give and take he got from being an active member of society. That was _before_ though. Now, well—now Shiro likes it out here.

He loves his little farm with his animals and vegetables and the ever-growing number of stray cats who keep taking up residence in the abandoned barn. It’s nice being alone. He can go without a shirt all goddamn day if he wants and there’s no one to stare at him but his dog or the chickens. There’s no one to judge his happiness beside him. Sure, he might be a little lonely for conversation sometimes but he can talk to Atlas and the animals and his therapist over Zoom every few weeks. At least he doesn’t have to lie to any of them. 

He likes his privacy, and the wide open landscapes he sees from every window. He likes that there isn’t another neighbor for fifteen miles and that if he wanted he could take a bath outside and there wouldn’t be a single person to see him. He’s got enough chickens to give him eggs, a small plot of vegetables to get him through the summer—and winter if he learns to can them—and even enough extras he can barter with some of the people in town for things he can’t grow like rice and beans and cookies. The fruit trees on the edge of the property might actually produce fruit this year and Shiro’s got big plans for his strawberry fields.

A decade ago, Shiro thought he’d be flying high in the sky, not down on his knees digging in the dirt and trying to plant the second set of peas for the season. But time changes everything, even dreams.

Shiro digs his fingers down deeper into the, widening the hole until it’s just the right depth. Once it’s just the correct size, he sits back on his heels, wiping his muddy hand on his jeans before carefully plucking three seeds from his pile and dropping them into the hole. He gathers more dirt into his hand and sprinkles it, patting it down gently to protect the seeds but not smother them. Shiro did a lot of reading while he waited for escrow to close on this place last year. He read all about proper fertilization and crop rotation and how to plant seeds. He’s no expert gardener, not yet, but he thinks he knows a thing or two about what it feels like to be suffocated—to be unable to grow.

“There you go,” he whispers, sprinkling the dirt over the hole until the seeds have disappeared beneath the earth. “Be great.” 

There’s no one else around to say anything about the fact that Shiro sometimes likes to talk to his seedlings, and even if there was, he doesn’t think he cares. He’s dealt with enough people who think he’s lost it, what someone else thinks of his vegetable pep talks is the least of his worries.

The day passes like this. The sun burns Shiro’s sensitive skin and he continues to ignore it in favor of finishing up the planting. Yesterday was root vegetables and today is peas. It’s a good routine. Shiro likes routine. He likes to stay busy. It works out well since there’s always something that needs done around the farm. There are always weeds to pick, seeds to plant, animals to feed, fences to mend, and leaky kitchen sinks to tie dish towels around and hope he can out-stubborn what he doesn’t know how to fix. 

By the time Shiro’s pile of seeds is gone, the sun has sunk low in the distance, casting an orange glow across the grassy horizon. It’s beautiful. Despite the beauty that surrounds him it’s impossible to ignore that his entire body aches—his knees and his shoulder especially. It’s a good ache though, one born out of hard work. Shiro’s no stranger to pain, but he prefers when it comes from something he chose and not his own body being an asshole.

Eventually Shiro rises from the ground, groaning as he tries to shake away the stiffness in his back and knees. He’s filthy but only spares a few seconds trying to brush some of the dirt off his jeans and his hand before sticking two fingers in his mouth and letting out a long high-pitched whistle. It’s quiet for a few seconds before there’s a familiar bark. Seconds later, Atlas comes bounding across the grass from wherever he’s been the last few hours—probably trying to catch a bunny, if Shiro had to guess. 

Atlas had taken to country life immediately. Shiro on the other hand had taken a few months to settle into things and not cry into his coffee every morning worried he’d bitten off more than he could chew when he’d bought ten acres and a rundown farm sight unseen. He’d been used to big cities and skyscrapers and twenty-four-hour take out. There’s nothing like that out here. Not even close. The only skyline Shiro has is the miles and miles of trees that line the edge of his property and the stars that glitter brighter than city lights ever could. There’s nothing close to take out either. Shiro hasn’t had food he didn’t cook himself in nearly a year, and when the sun sets there isn’t a single light besides the one that shines in his own home. Everything from the darkness and quiet to the lack of people and never-ending work had been an adjustment, but just being alive had felt like one too. The sight of Atlas rolling in the mud and chasing squirrels and looking happier than Shiro had ever seen him had been the only thing that kept Shiro from running away from this place. He’d been so out of his depth.

There’d been a time where Shiro spent all his time looking up to the stars, sure his future was at the furthest reaches of the galaxy. Now he spends all of his time earthbound—his biggest daydream involving a self-weeding vegetable garden and a fresh-baked pan of cinnamon buns. Even his wildest wishes and dreams are a lot smaller, and he’s okay with that.

This is where his life is now, this is his home. This is where he belongs. Him and Atlas. It’s not the life Shiro imagined for himself growing up, but it’s his and he’s damn proud of it.

“Hey, buddy,” Shiro says when Atlas bounds across the dirt. “Watch out for the…never mind,” he laughs as Atlas tramples over some of his freshly-planted pea seeds in his excitement to get to Shiro. “What’cha got there, Atlas?”

Atlas barks around his mouthful, dropping the mud-covered stick at Shiro’s feet like it’s made out of gold. 

“Oh, thank you. You’re such a good boy.”

Atlas lets out an excited bark, his tail wagging frantically as he licks at Shiro’s open palm. 

“Good boy,” Shiro repeats, scratching behind Atlas’s ears. His fur is full of leaves and dirt and while Shiro is tired enough to face plant directly into the dirt right then and there without any dinner, he knows Atlas needs a good bath before they turn in. Especially since no matter how many times Shiro tells Atlas he has his own bed, he’ll only sleep with Shiro. The last thing Shiro needs is to have to strip the bed and wash his sheets again. Making the bed one-handed is something Shiro puts off as long as possible.

Knowing exactly how much Atlas hates baths, he waits until they’re all the way on the other side of the house. Atlas follows alongside him, at least until Shiro turns on the hose, and then he lets out a loud whine.

“You need a bath,” Shiro says, feeling guilt when Atlas’s ears press back against his skull. “Come on don’t look at me like that. You’re even dirtier than me and that's saying something.”

Atlas lets out a low whine. There’s no mistaking his opinion on the situation. But Shiro knows better than to give in. The last time he did, he’d woken up with his bed covered in dirty paw prints and leaves in his mouth.

“I know, buddy. I know.” He turns the faucet, swiping his thumb through the water to make sure it’s not too hot from the sun. “But once we clean up we can eat.”

Atlas’s ears perk up at that.

“That’s right, eat. You like to eat. So just come here and let me clean you first.”

Shiro takes one step forward and Atlas tries to bolt. Only quick reflexes stop Atlas from getting away as Shiro drops the hose and lunges forward to hug him around the middle—ending up sprawled in a puddle of water with Atlas in his lap and his ass soaking wet. Atlas seems overjoyed at the turn of events, apparently convinced this is some sort of game as he licks a stripe across Shiro’s ear and wags his tail so hard it thumps Shiro in the side of the head.

“Right,” Shiro huffs. “This isn’t exactly how I envisioned this going.”

Atlas licks him again and Shiro can’t help but laugh. As tired as he is, it’s impossible not to find humor in the entire situation. Of course the humor fades as the sun sets and Shiro’s left muddier than he began with a lap full of uncooperative, wet dog. A sixty pound dog that still thinks he’s a puppy,lapping at Shiro’s face and barking happily as Shiro attempts to grab the hose without completely letting go of Atlas—a feat that’s damn near impossible with one hand.

He does eventually get ahold of the hose again but he loses Atlas. Shiro spends the next fifteen minutes chasing Atlas around the house trying to catch him. He doesn’t. He settles for digging a dog treat out of his hiding spot on the porch and waggling it at Atlas as he holds the hose between his thighs.

By the time he finally gets Atlas clean, he’s too tired for his own shower and settles for stripping naked in the middle of his front lawn—there’s no one for miles to see him and what he does in his own home is his own business. It’s not a proper shower and he can't scrub himself off while he’s holding the hose, but the water’s cool now that it’s been running a while and it feels like heaven on his sun-warmed skin. Shiro closes his eyes, dousing his head in water and relishing in the feeling of being clean. Once his hair is completely drenched he moves on, running the hose water over his right shoulder and then down his chest and legs. Beside him, Atlas watches on curiously before shaking his coat dry and ambling up the porch. Shiro takes one more pass over his head, holding his breath as he puts the hose directly over his face. Once he’s as clean as he can get he drops the hose, turning off the faucet and making his way to the porch. Unlike Atlas, he can’t just shake himself dry, so he settles for grabbing his discarded t-shirt from that morning and dragging it over his skin to dry up as much excess water as he can.

He spares one glance at his wet, muddy jeans and boxers lying in the grass and decides to leave them there. He’ll probably regret it tomorrow when it’s time to do his laundry and he has to hose off sun-baked mud, but for tonight he’s too hungry and tired to care. Right now Shiro’s got about two functioning brain cells and they’re focused on inhaling the leftover chickpea and potato stew in his fridge and then passing out—hopefully on the bed if he can make it upstairs.

An hour later, Shiro’s belly is full of a double helping of stew and Atlas is flopped out beside him asleep with his tongue hanging out and doggy drool all over Shiro’s favorite blanket. For his own part, Shiro’s just as close to passing out—his limbs heavy and his eyelids drooping. After a few more minutes of trying to force his eyes open, he gives up and turns off the television—he hadn’t been paying attention to it anyway. It’s all his own fault for buying such a comfortable couch for the living room. Every time Shiro ends up on the couch he winds up napping instead of reading or watching tv.

The couch is big enough for a family of twelve which makes it a bit obscene for just Shiro and Atlas, but the massive size means it’s actually long enough for Shiro to spread out his entire six foot four frame without getting a crick in his neck or having to oddly contort his legs. There’s even enough room for Atlas to have his own half of the massive L-shaped couch, not that he ever uses it. Atlas prefers to burrow behind Shiro or under his legs despite having enough room to sprawl out like a king. Besides the size of the couch being nice, it’s also covered in an array of throw pillows—Shiro has a little bit of an addiction to the soft fuzzy ones—all of which make the couch an ideal place to rest. It also means that despite knowing his own bed is even more comfortable, at least once a week Shiro ends up falling asleep on the couch—too tired to trudge all the way upstairs.

Beside him Atlas lets out a whine, his front paws beginning to move frantically as if he’s chasing something. Shiro fails to stifle a yawn as he reaches out to rub Atlas’s belly. After a few rubs, Atlas stops moving, settling back into a peaceful sleep. Shiro leaves his hand in place on Atlas’s warm belly just in case, his own eyes drooping. 

Shiro relaxes further when he remembers that tomorrow is Sunday—one of Shiro’s favorite days.

Sundays are what Shiro likes to think of as his baking and catch up day. Shiro always makes a fresh loaf of bread to last the week and a double batch of homemade buttermilk waffles—plenty to freeze and pop in the toaster so he doesn’t have to cook in the morning. It’s the day he does the least amount of work on the farm but the most work inside,taking care of the little things around the house he tends to neglect during the week in favor of caring for the animals or his crops. It’s been his routine for months, and nothing ever breaks his routine.

His last thought before he passes out is that tomorrow he will definitely make it to his own bedroom and do his laundry.

* * *

Shiro wakes with a jolt, nearly falling off the sofa and his heart racing. 

He blinks open his eyes to relative darkness and complete and utter silence. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness, but even when they do it’s too dark for him to make out the clock on the far wall. Judging by the small stream of moonlight coming in through the living room window, he’s pretty sure it can’t be much past two or three in the morning. Way too early for him to be awake. 

It’s not like Shiro to wake at odd hours—he’s more of a pass out and wake up seven hours later kind of guy. Brain stuck somewhere between the haze of dreamland and wakefulness he can’t tell if the crash he heard was in his dream or real. He sits up and strains his ears but hears nothing but the familiar sound of the cicadas out the cracked window. He turns to stroke Atlas, only to discover that he’s missing. That in and of itself isn’t too unusual. He’s got his own doggy door in the kitchen and though he doesn’t normally go out at night he knows how to come and go if he needs to. 

Atlas probably only got up to pee. It’s entirely possible that him jumping off the couch startled Shiro out of a light REM cycle. Or at least that’s what he tells himself as he crashes back down onto the pillows and shuts his eyes.But sleep doesn't come. Instead, Shiro’s ears remain alert listening for the sound of Atlas’s footfalls.

The more time passes without the jingle of Atlas’s collar or the pitter patter of his feet on the hardwood floor, the less certain Shiro becomes. After another five minutes, Shiro gives up trying to sleep. It’s entirely possible that Atlas got distracted by some of the more nocturnal animals that wander the farm at night, or maybe even spotted another fox trying to sneak into the chicken coop. Even as he thinks it, he knows it’s not a viable option. Atlas isn’t afraid of the dark, but he’s definitely not a big fan. Not by a long shot. The truth is he’s a giant baby and while it’s possible he went outside alone to pee, there’s no way he would’ve stayed.

Unable to shake the sense of unease crawling up his spine, Shiro throws his legs over the couch and scrubs his hand over his face.

 _It’s probably nothing_ , he tells himself. But he still rises, shuffling around the room in the dark and slipping on his work boots that sit beside the fireplace. He doesn’t bother going upstairs to find any pants, that would take too long. Instead, he yanks his favorite plaid shirt from the hook by the door and throws it on over his boxers and bare chest. 

He flips on the kitchen light and the one on the back porch, but he can't see more than a foot or two ahead in the dark. 

“Atlas!” Shiro hollers, hoping Atlas will simply come running across the grass. No such luck.

“Fuck,” Shiro curses, seeking out the extension cord he keeps on the back porch for the floodlight. He hasn’t used it since last month when a fox had managed to sneak its way into the chicken coop and he’d needed to light up half the farm to patch the hole. It takes him a few minutes to locate it since it wound up inside the wrong box, and another few minutes to find the ladder so he can climb on the roof and get it plugged in.

Instantly half an acre is lit up brighter than the sun. No Atlas in sight.

“Atlas,” Shiro yells again, climbing down the first few rungs of the ladder and then simply hopping off the rest. His boots land in the mud, bits of it splashing up his bare calves. He can’t care less.

The feeling of unease has increased to undeniable worry. This isn’t like Atlas. He would never leave without Shiro. Not at night. Shiro’s not the kind of person to panic. He knows that ninety-nine percent of problems can be handled with a bit of patience and a calm mind.

Shiro doesn’t feel very calm. He’s lost a lot of things in his life, but the idea of something happening to Atlas makes his stomach roll. He’d rather lose his other arm than his best friend.

He kicks off the clumps of mud then starts to walk, and pretty soon he finds himself running. The further he runs the louder he yells until Atlas’s name is ripped from his throat in something bordering very close to panic.

“Goddamn it, Atlas. Where are you?” Shiro yells, practically sprinting now. 

There’s still no sign of Atlas and it makes Shiro run even faster, speeding across the grass. The last time he’d run this fast had been during his last track meet in his senior year when he’d won the 400m. Back then his blood had pumped with excitement, but the feeling coursing through his veins now is dangerously close to panic. 

“Atlas!”

No response again. Shit.

Shiro’s lungs begin to burn as he pushes his body to the brink, every ounce of sleep falling from his body and replaced by adrenaline. He passes through the orchard,a stray branch from one of the cherry trees swiping him across the face. Despite the sting he doesn’t stop running or calling Atlas. 

The sounds of the night filter past his ears—the crunch of twigs and dirt beneath his boots, an owl hooting in the distance, and his heart beating louder than the hum of cicadas—as he continues to run. 

A few more minutes and he’s less than a quarter mile from the edge of his property now. Atlas would never go this far alone. Never. There’s nothing out here except the dense trees of the forest that this side of Shiro’s property backs up onto. It was one of the reasons he was so keen to buy it. Not only does he have five acres to himself, but his modest farm backs up to wildlife preserve. 

Except, Atlas knows not to cross the border. _He knows._

“Atlas,” Shiro yells one last time. He’s all but given up hope when Atlas comes bounding through the trees. 

There’s no time to wonder about why the hell Atlas went so far alone or why he took so long to come to Shiro. All Shiro can do is focus on the overwhelming sense of relief as he drops to his knees,the grass beneath him damp as he opens his arms, burying his face in Atlas’s fur. It’s the closest Shiro has come to crying since his accident.

“Don’t do that again, buddy,” Shiro mumbles, attempting to catch his breath as he runs his hand over Atlas’s head and down his back. He checks his sides and then moves down to check his front and hind legs to make sure he’s not hurt. Once he’s sure Atlas isn’t injured he ruffles his head one more time then stands up. “Come on, Atlas. Let’s go home.”

Atlas barks, turning to face the opposite direction.

“No, Atlas,” Shiro says firmly, confusion mounting. This isn’t like him. He always listens to Shiro. Well except for bath time, but Shiro doesn’t think that counts. “ _Home._ ”

Atlas barks again, looking agitated. Before Shiro can wonder too much, Atlas turns on his tail and trots back through the trees.

“What the fuck,” Shiro yells, chasing after him. He calls him twice but Atlas pays no mind, continuing forward back to where he was. With a heavy sigh and mounting confusion Shiro runs after him, ducking through the trees and out into the clearing on the other side. What he sees stops him dead in his tracks.

A spaceship.

There’s a goddamn spaceship on his property. 

Not just any spaceship either. A crashed one. The fuselage has a massive crack on the anterior, the ground is littered with scraps of some kind of metal that looks like it previously served as the tail plane and there is an unpleasant smelling smoke pouring out of what is presumably the engine. The only thing that doesn't seem to be damaged—by some miracle—are the ailerons.

Atlas lets out a yelp, clearly pleased with himself. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Shiro agrees, taking another step closer to get a better look and praying the damn thing doesn’t explode. “Good boy.”

There’s a woof of pleasure from the praise, before Atlas bumps his head against Shiro’s knee and tries to corral him toward the ship. Shiro lets him, getting close enough that if he reached out he could skim his palm across the shimmering surface. Even in the dark Shiro knows this is no military or commercial aircraft, and it sure as fuck isn’t Garrison-made. 

He reaches out his hand then drops it, hesitating. Unbidden memories long pushed aside flood his brain—a geomagnetic storm that had busted his navigation system, his ship off course, and a distress signal answered not by the Garrison, but by a mystery person in a dark suit and mask who most definitely had not been human. 

It’s a memory that was once burned into Shiro’s brain, one that played behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes.

It’s a memory he was paid a lot of money to forget.

Shiro tried everything he could to forget. He sold everything he owned—except Atlas—and fucked off to the other side of the States where no one would know his name or his story. 

Nearly every day he works his body to the bone so that when he passes out at night he’ll be too tired to dream.

Shiro doesn’t forget. He _makes_ himself not remember.

This, though, Shiro thinks as the clouds part, allowing the moon to become impossibly bright—bright enough for Shiro to make out a line of illegible symbols engraved in the side of the ship—this, Shiro remembers. 

_Aliens._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories Shiro thought he left in the past are dredged up as he meets the mystery alien who crashed on his farm, laying the groundwork for a future he never could've dreamed.

Dimly he’s aware of Atlas’s cold snout pressing into the palm of his hand, but there’s a ringing in Shiro’s ears that makes it hard to think—makes it hard to breathe.

_Disgraced Garrison pilot Takashi Shirogane relieved of duty after a pilot error causes the loss of a ten million dollar satellite and the destruction of a stealth cruiser that was about to be contracted by the United States Government. No word on what the fallen golden boy of Garrison Tech will do next._

Shiro closes his eyes, breathing in deeply through his nose then exhales slowly through pursed lips.

_”Given your injury, Shirogane, this is the best case scenario for you. You can’t fly again and the Garrison believes you’re a liability. You will officially be relieved of duty tomorrow with full pay and compensation. Pilot error is the story that has been given. You will not correct it. You will not talk about aliens._

Shiro knows he’s not crazy. He’s known it all along, no matter what anyone else tried to tell him.

Knowing it for himself, though, is one thing. Coming face to face with it like this is something else entirely. Shiro never expected to see space again, and he sure as hell didn’t expect to see aliens. Especially not in his goddamn backyard. 

The tightness in Shiro’s chest increases along with his heart rate. He tries to slow his breathing even more to stave it off. This is not the time to panic. Stupid things happen when you panic. You lose control—mistakes happen. 

There’s a long wet strip licked across his palm and it gives Shiro the clarity of mind he needs to deal with this.

This is his farm. He’s not alone, Atlas is with him. Whatever the hell is going on, Shiro can deal with this. He’s dealt with worse.

“Okay, buddy, okay,” Shiro murmurs, scratching behind Atlas’s ears. 

There’s another hot puff of air from Atlas’s snout against Shiro’s leg as Atlas continues to try and herd Shiro closer to the ship. Whatever is going on he wants Shiro to get closer. There’s a list of things Shiro doesn’t trust that’s a mile long including the mystery meat tamales at the gas station in town and the entire Garrison. He trusts Atlas, though. If there’s something Atlas wants him to see then Shiro’s going to look.

“Alright, Atlas, I hear you. What do you want—” but then Shiro sees it—movement from within. 

It’s just a flicker of a shadow, but it’s unmistakably movement from inside the ship. 

They are not alone.

Any lingering trepidation dissipates as Shiro assesses the situation at the hand. Now is not the time for uncertainty or fear. Now is the time for action.

If the outside of the ship is any indication, whoever is inside is likely just as banged up. There’s also no telling what effects the crash landing had on the fuel cells. Shiro might not know the exact mechanics of extraterrestrial spacecraft but he knows human one. He needs to get whoever is in there out in case this thing blows.

Getting from the ground up to the upper cabin proves difficult. The ship is smooth and every time Shiro tries to climb up the left wing his boots slip, making him unable to get even two feet up off the ground— Shiro needs a better grip and the boots are slowing him down. He kicks them off, pleased at the bit of progress he’s able to make without the slick underside of his boots slipping on metal. It’s still tricky, and Shiro tumbles to the ground more than once, eventually managing to make it up onto the wing. 

It’s only when he’s got his hand pressed to the cool glass-like material of the window that he realizes he has no idea how to open the hatch. He runs his hand over the smooth surface of the cabin window. Whatever material it’s made of is opaque enough that Shiro can’t get a good look at who is inside and can only see the shadow of someone or something moving within. It’s limited movement at best, and Shiro knows he needs to act fast.

“Think, Shirogane. Think,” Shiro mutters, rapping his knuckles against the glass.

What he’s not expecting is whoever is inside to tap back. But they do. It’s a quick tap but Shiro knows he didn’t imagine it.

Shiro repeats the action, curling his fingers into a fist and knocking harder on the glass. “Hello?”

There’s a pause and then the unmistakable outline of a hand slams against the glass sending a shiver down Shiro’s spine as his eyes take in the dark outline of a hand shoved against the glass. The details of Shiro’s previous alien encounter are fuzzy at best, and while he’s certain the encounter happened, it’s about the only thing he was ever certain of. Even in his wildest dreams he hadn’t imagined alien life might so closely resemble human biology, but the outline of the handprint in the window is unmistakably human-like—a broad palm and five fingers. The hand is noticeably smaller than Shiro’s, but humanoid just the same. Slowly Shiro uncurls his fingers, lining it up against the shadow and watching the way their handprints align.

Beneath his palm the fingers twitch as they slip down. For a horrible moment Shiro fears the worst, but then the aircraft canopy retracts to reveal the mystery being inside. Shiro’s heart leaps into his throat at the sight of the familiar suit and mask—black all over with almost glowing purple seams. 

“Where am I?” the voice yells, its hand shooting out to fist in the side of Shiro’s flannel shirt.

“You’re safe. You’re on my farm,” Shiro tells him, trying to loosen his grip.

The alien shakes its head, ripping its mask off with its other hand. Once again Shiro is left breathless but for entirely different reasons. The alien in front of him is nothing short of beautiful. 

Their features are sharp but delicate, the pale skin nearly the same tone as Shiro’s, and the shape of their face is entirely human from the almond-shaped eyes to the pointy jaw. His hair, or at least Shiro thinks he’s a he, hangs around his chin, long in the back and brushed back off his face to reveal the only alien-looking thing about him—slanted ears. There’s also a pale yellow tint to his eyes that makes him look almost cat like, and when he opens his mouth to speak again Shiro notices his front teeth are sharp as fangs.

“ _Where am I?_ ” he repeats, voice taking on a panicked tone.

It’s then that Shiro really takes in the extent of his injuries. Or at least, the ones he can see. There’s a nasty cut across his cheek producing an awful lot of blood that runs down his neck—though with anything on the head it's always hard to gauge the severity by blood loss alone. There are a few other scratches on his neck, and his suit has more than one bloody gash in it, likely from loose debris during the impact. Between the dim lighting and the dark suit material, Shiro can’t even begin to assess the injuries hidden beneath his suit. He’d need to cut it off.

“You’re on my farm,” Shiro repeats, eyes roving over him to check for any major blood loss. 

The answer seems to agitate him and he twists his fingers in Shiro’s shirt and yanks him closer so that Shiro comes tumbling down—his stomach crashing against metal and leaving him hanging halfway into the cockpit with his face just inches from his mystery visitor. 

“Where am I?” he asks.

“You’re in upstate New York,” Shiro answers.

There’s a visible tremble in his body as he whispers, “New York.”

“Yeah, New York.” Shiro repeats softly, leaning over the edge to try and get close enough to seek out a pulse. He moves slowly, unwilling to startle him. “Hey, I just want to check your heart rate, okay. Can I touch you?”

There’s no response, though Shiro isn’t really surprised. He reaches out slowly so as not to startle him too much and presses two fingers over the side of his neck, praying this human looking alien has a carotid artery. Sure enough, the pulse thrums beneath his fingers. Shiro focuses on the erratic beat as he counts. It’s high. Way too high.

“Where?” he mutters again. Then the pitch goes higher. “ _Where is New York?”_

The grip on Shiro’s shirt slackens, but the gaze remains intense. At this point Shiro has no idea if the alien is delusional, suffering from a more serious injury, or just entering some kind of shock. It’s impossible to tell without an idea of the baseline heart rate for an alien. 

“New York is in the United States.”

He shakes his head, looking frantic now. “Planet. What planet?”

Oh. 

Shiro wants to kick himself for not realizing that was what he meant sooner.

“You’re on Earth.”

“Earth,” he whispers, his heart rate speeding up beneath Shiro’s fingertips. “I made it.”

Then he promptly passes out.

There’s another shudder, but this time it’s from Shiro’s body as he’s left staring at the unconscious form in front of him. Worst-case scenarios flash through his mind—a future in which the alien doesn't make it. 

Shiro doesn’t panic, but he comes pretty damn close. 

After nearly a year of _not_ thinking about the existence of extraterrestrial life, now that it’s staring him in the face, he’s not sure he can put the memories back in their proverbial box. He’s not sure he _wants_ to. Along with the confusion and fear he’d locked away are the good feelings Shiro had been forced to ignore too—curiosity, excitement, wonder. Now he’s got a chance for answers, a chance to find out exactly what mysteries lie at the furthest reaches of the galaxies.

Or, at least he does if the alien doesn’t die. The second he has the thought, Shiro pushes it away. Shiro refuses to let the first alien life form he’s encountered since before his accident die on him. He won’t let it happen. He won’t.

Moving his fingers back towards the neck, he presses his fingers against the pulse point and frowns. His heart rate is dropping faster than Shiro is comfortable with at the same time that his breathing speeds up. The closest hospital is a good fifty miles away, and even if it were closer, Shiro knows he wouldn’t trust them with someone like this. They might save him, but at what cost?

Taking him there is not an option, not unless it becomes a matter of life or death, and they sure as hell aren’t there yet. Right now the best chance he has for survival is Shiro and his emergency med kit stashed in the back of his upstairs closet. Shiro just hopes that his semester-long first aid course he’d taken during flight training will be enough.

It’s only once Shiro has decided that he’s going to save the alien’s life that it occurs to him that he's got to get him out of the cockpit and back to his house.

Thankfully, getting the safety harness off him is easy enough. Getting him out of the cockpit? Not so much. Shiro is strong, so it’s not so much his body mass that's a problem—though he’s significantly heavier than he looks. The big problem is getting him out with just one arm when he’s limp as a noodle. It takes a few minutes and a lot of awkward finagling, but eventually Shiro manages to pull him against his chest with an arm beneath his shoulders to heft him out and onto the wing. After that it’s just one awkward slide down to the ground during which Shiro holds onto him tightly. The landing is rough, but Shiro manages to take the brunt of the fall by throwing his body weight sideways at the last second so his back hits the ground first. It hurts like hell and he’s pretty sure he’s going to need to snag some of the painkillers from the first aid kit for himself, but it’s better than jostling the alien in his arm, and at least the ground was damp enough to soften the landing a little bit even if it does mean his ass is covered in mud.

Atlas wastes no time crowding into Shiro’s space, emitting a low whine as he licks at Shiro’s face.

“Shh, I’m okay, Atlas,” he soothes, pitching his voice as low as calm as he can given the current situation.

It’s not a complete lie. Compared to the unconscious alien in his lap Shiro _is_ fine—physically anyway. 

It’s clear that Atlas doesn’t believe him, because he proceeds to pant into Shiro’s cheek as he noses at his hair the same way he does when he thinks Shiro is upset or hurt. Shiro exhales a shuddering breath, torn between laughing or crying. Atlas has always seen right through him, and it’s certainly not the first time Shiro marvels at the intuitiveness of animals. 

Shiro isn’t okay. Not really. But right now the small ache in his back and the storm raging in his mind are the least of his worries. He needs to take care of the alien first. Shiro can deal with his own emotional shit later.

“It’s okay,” he tells Atlas. “You’re a good boy, always watching out for me, but right now we need to take care of our new friend. He needs help. We’re going to help him okay?”

Atlas barks softly, curious eyes roaming over the life form in Shiro’s arms. He sniffs at his hair but doesn’t get too close, staying pressed closely against Shiro’s right shoulder.

“Good boy.”

Atlas’s tail wags and his unquestionable loyalty gives Shiro the boost of strength he needs to get his ass off the ground and heft the alien up against his chest. It’s not the best position for Shiro to be able to move quickly, but he’s unwilling to risk simply throwing him over his shoulders and settles for holding him like an oversized child—his head lolled against Shiro’s shoulder and Shiro’s arm beneath his body holding him close. 

It really hits him then that now he’s got to get an unconscious extraterrestrial life form across five acres of farmland with one arm to get to the med kid in the pitch dark. The idea of jostling him that much doesn’t sit well with Shiro, but neither does the option of taking the time to go get the med kit and bring it back here. Especially since assessing his injuries at home where Shiro’s got running water, a good first aid kit, and decent lighting would be infinitely better. Under ideal circumstances, Shiro wouldn’t ever consider moving someone with a head injury over that kind of distance, especially not when Shiro can’t rule out any spinal injury. Unfortunately he doesn’t have a choice.

The truth is, time is of the essence and Shiro needs to make a decision, but he doesn’t want it to be the wrong one. 

Shiro takes a brief moment to look down at the unconscious form cradled against his chest—the slow rise and fall of his chest and the pale pallor to his pursed lips as he pants. Dark eyelashes fan over sharp cheekbones, and the blood on his face is drying. There’s something painfully vulnerable about him that makes Shiro’s throat tighten. 

It shocks Shiro how much he aches to see him open his eyes again, to hear his voice once more. 

There’s no time for indecision or fear—there’s only time for action, and the harsh reality is if things do go sour, Shiro needs to be closer to his truck. He doesn’t relish turning someone over knowing they’re likely to be hidden away by the government and studied. The government already fucked up his life over one mention of extraterrestrial life; he can only imagine what they’d do if they got their hands on one. 

Shiro won’t hesitate to save his life, he just hopes it never comes to that. But until Shiro can get him home and check out the severity of his wounds, he can’t be sure.

Decision made, Shiro tightens his hold on the body in his arms and runs.

It’s a hell of a lot more difficult shouldering the weight of another person, and more than once Shiro stumbles—his balance fucked because of the extra weight. Every time he manages to right himself without falling on his face or dropping his precious cargo.

 _Don’t die,_ is the mantra that plays on repeat in Shiro’s brain as he continues to run. 

The faster he runs, the tighter he holds on, doing his best not to jostle the alien too much, but desperate to get him back to his house as soon as possible. Shiro’s property has never felt so big as it does now, and he thinks about how much easier this would’ve been had the spaceship crash landed in his backyard and not the very edge of his damn property. 

He runs and runs, ignoring the growing ache in his legs and his shoulder as Atlas sprints alongside them. 

Despite the distance, Shiro makes decent time, pushing his body to the breaking point as he takes a straight path, cutting through the small fruit orchard, stampeding through his half-grown cornfield, and even stomping over his freshly sown pea crop. 

The only thing Shiro cares about right now is saving a life—the life in his arms.

Before he knows it, Shiro’s house comes into view—the floodlight nearly blinding him as he crosses into the yard and up the front steps. All the while Atlas is quieter than usual, but Shiro can hear his speedy footfalls beside him and knows he’s following along as Shiro busts through the living room and lays the alien on the couch. 

Somehow seeing the alien on his couch in his house makes it feel even more real, and Shiro is acutely aware of the rise and fall of his chest. Back in the light it’s easier to really take in his features and the unmistakable youthfulness of his face. There’s a fierceness in him, but something fragile.

Shiro wants him to make it—he _needs_ him to make it.

“Don’t you dare die,” Shiro tells him, as if he can make him stay stable out of stubbornness. “I mean it,” he adds, even though he knows the alien can’t hear him. He wishes he knew his name so he could stop thinking about him as _the alien_.

Maybe later, Shiro thinks. When all this is done, maybe he will tell Shiro his name.

“I know you can’t answer me but I need to do a primary survey to assess your airways. I’m going to check your mouth, okay?” Shiro asks, touching his cheek. He knows he can’t actually answer, but it feels better to tell him what's happening, just in case. For all he knows, aliens can cognitively process things while unconscious. It’s probably just Shiro’s own fears, but the idea of being aware of his surroundings but unable to react makes his blood run cold, and he won’t subject someone else to that, not ever.

“I’m going to start now,” Shiro says as he tilts the alien’s chin back. Though it’s been years since Shiro performed this type of thing on anyone else, it’s easy to fall back into his first aid training. He’s quick but gentle—or so he hopes—as he works his mouth open to check that there’s nothing blocking his airway. Once he‘s sure it’s clear he moves on.

Atlas is clearly curious about what’s happening if the thumping of his tail against the hardwood floor is any indication, but like the good boy that he is, he remains still, watching as Shiro presses two fingers back against the alien’s neck to relocate the pulse point. Atlas noses closer, shoving his snout into the back of Shiro’s neck as Shiro attempts to palpate him, locating the artery and holding his fingers over it to check the heart rate. He closes his eyes as he counts—it’s still high, just over 100, but it’s stabilized enough that Shiro is no longer worried about him going into shock. Once he’s got that checked he moves his hand down to the alien’s chest, centering it as he closes his eyes and focuses on the heart beat beneath his palm. It’s strong and steady and Shiro’s hand trembles. How on earth his body stabilized itself is beyond Shiro’s reach, but it’s a good sign—a really good sign—and Shiro lets out the breath he’s been holding.

This is fine. Shiro can handle this. Shiro just needs to get his first aid kit to make sure there are no serious surprises hiding beneath the space suit.

Realizing he’s wasted too many precious seconds already, he rushes to the hall closet in search of the first aid kit. Instead of being front and center like it’s supposed to be, there’s a massive box of Oreos Shiro’d ordered online shoved in its place.

“Where the hell is it?” Shiro mutters, knocking the jumbo box of cookies to the ground as he rummages through the cupboard, cursing his previous self for putting off reorganizing the cupboard until _later_. Several more things end up on the floor—a spare blanket for the couch, an unopened bubble mailer full of heirloom tomato seed packets, and more dog toys than any one household should ever have. Finally he finds it hidden behind the first cookbook he bought after his accident— _Mrs. Rasmussen’s One Arm Cookery._

First aid kit finally obtained, Shiro makes his way back to the couch to find Atlas nosing at the alien’s hand curiously. His ears perk up when he hears Shiro and he ambles to the side to make enough room for Shiro to drop to his knees on the floor beside the couch.

“Good boy, taking care of our guest. I’ve got it from here now, Atlas. Sit.”

Atlas obeys immediately, sitting at attention beside Shiro. It’s clear he wants to keep inspecting their house guest but doesn’t get in Shiro’s way to inspect him further—not yet anyway. Shiro fully expects to see Atlas nosing around him later once he’s got him bandaged up, trying to figure out why there is someone in their home. 

Shiro flips open the latch on the first aid kit. It’s not something he needs to use often but living so far out, he’s needed to bandage up a sprain or a cut more times than he would like to admit. And that's not even taking into account the basic first aid he’s had to perform on one of the animals to keep them comfortable until the vet could come when something was more serious than he could handle. The last time Shiro had needed to get into his kit had been when his goat Lance got loose and ended up stuck in the roses a few months back. Thankfully Shiro had the foresight after that incident to restock the kit, which is good since he will definitely need the gauze today.

He grabs a glove, biting the edge of the wrist and slipping his fingers inside before getting started on the nasty gash across the alien’s face. It’s not actively bleeding anymore, but it needs to be cleaned out so Shiro can make sure he doesn't need stitches, which means Shiro needs something to actually clean it with. He moves swiftly, grabbing one of his mixing bowls from the kitchen and filling it with warm water from the tap and then snags a pile of clean washcloths from the downstairs bathroom. With his supplies in tow he returns, watching the steady rise and fall of the alien’s chest as he drops to his knees. 

“Alright I’m going to clean the wound on your face now,” Shiro tells him, dunking one of the washcloths into the warm water then squeezing most of it out before dabbing it over the dried blood. He moves as quickly as he can without risking agitating the wound more. It’s slow work but after a few minutes he’s got all the dirt and blood off the stranger’s face. He looks even younger without it, not much younger than Shiro maybe. Then again, what the hell does Shiro know about extraterrestrial lifespans. 

“The good news is you don’t need stitches. The bad news is I can’t guarantee this won’t scar,” Shiro tells him, ripping open a butterfly bandage with his teeth and applying it across the cheek. 

It’s strange, but somehow talking to him helps, so Shiro keeps doing it. If he can hear Shiro, then maybe it’ll help to know that Shiro means him no harm. If he can’t, then there are no witnesses to him talking to an unconscious being. 

“Next I need to get you out of your, uh…well…space suit,” Shiro says, eyes roaming over the alien’s form. He’s smaller than Shiro but by no means is he _small_ —lithe and muscular beneath the skin tight bodysuit. “If I can figure out how to get it off you.”

Shiro doesn’t want to ruin the alien’s only clothing if he can help it, but after several minutes of intense examination he comes to one conclusion—he doesn’t have a clue how to get it off. Logic would dictate that there’s got to be some sort of secret zipper or release to the suit, but if there is, Shiro can’t find it.

“I’m really, really sorry about this,” Shiro apologizes, lifting the utility scissors from the first aid kit. There’s no easy place to start since the suit fits him like a second skin, so Shiro goes for gash near his ribs and slips the tip of the scissors into the hole, and cuts. He moves across the alien’s chest, up one arm and then the other, making quick work of the top half before moving the scissors down to cut off the bottom half. He finishes cutting the bottom half and even manages to pull it out from underneath him without dislodging him from the couch.

Shiro’s first thought at seeing him naked is that he is definitely alien. Though his facial features are mostly human, the rest of him is noticeably different. He’s got no belly button, but rather his midsection where it would be is crisscrossed in thick lavender stripes across the flat span of his hips. His body is lean, but it’s clear he’s strong. Shiro’s eyes roam over his body to look for injuries, inevitably landing on his cock, which is human enough in its size and general shape, aside from the pale purple tint to it and the small ridges along the sides. And the noticeable swell at the base which looks very much like some sketchy werewolf porn Shiro once found online while looking up porn for the first time as an overly horny and curious teenager who hadn’t yet accepted his sexuality. 

Everything else—from the alien’s arms to his long legs and ten fingers and toes—looks human, and the biological similarities raise a million and one questions in Shiro’s mind. Questions he knows he won’t get an answer to unless he gets back to patching up wounds and stops wasting time marveling at xenobiology and what it means for extraterrestrial life to be on Earth. 

“Who are you,” Shiro murmurs, dropping the scissors and reaching for a clean washcloth. 

He dips it in the water, squeezing out the excess before getting to work cleaning up the wounds. As he gets off the dried blood he’s relieved to discover that most of the cuts seem to be superficial. There’s a rather long, nasty one that spans across his left thigh and an even longer one down his right forearm, but neither appear to have severed any arteries or exposed any bones. It’s slow but easy enough work to get them clean and disinfected, and then Shiro’s covering them in antibiotic cream, laying gauze patches over them, and carefully wrapping each wound with its own ACE bandage. 

All the while the alien remains unmoving, aside from the low rise and fall of his chest. It’s steadying for Shiro to be able to see such clear evidence that, at the very least, he’s still alive. His face is relaxed, as if he’s merely asleep, and Shiro hopes it means he isn’t in any pain. 

“I’m not sure when you might wake up but, uh…you probably would rather not be naked.” Shiro rises from the floor, startling Atlas who whines, shoving her snout into the alien’s side. “Don’t worry, boy. He’s going to be okay. You keep watch on him while I go get some clothes though, yeah?”

Atlas’s tail wags, and Shiro takes that as a yes.

He’s quick and efficient as he cleans up the first aid supplies, depositing them back in the closet where they go before jogging upstairs to his bedroom. Shiro’s due for laundry tomorrow which means he’s low enough on clean clothes as it is, coupled with the fact that the alien is substantially smaller than him and finding something that might fit him is no easy task. After a few tense moments of digging through his drawers, he eventually settles on a pair of pajama bottoms he rarely wears since they’re too snug in the thighs, and one of his old Garrison t-shirts that doesn’t technically fit anymore but for some reason he’s never been able to part with.

Clothes in hand, Shiro heads back downstairs, content to ignore the mess he made of his bedroom in favor of checking on his alien guest. Shiro doesn't expect him to be awake yet, but he hurries down the stairs two at a time anyway, equal parts relieved and disappointed to find him in the exact same position on the couch, with Atlas still at his side.

“Good boy,” Shiro praises, dropping the clothes on the edge of the couch in favor of scratching behind Atlas’s ears. Atlas preens under the praise, nuzzling his head into Shiro’s palm. “You’re the best doggy in the world aren’t you, buddy? Thanks for watching out for our new friend.”

Sometimes Shiro swears Atlas understands him. Now is definitely one of those times.

When Shiro stops scratching behind Atlas’s ears he whines, butting his head into Shiro’s thigh. “Sorry buddy, someone else needs some of my attention now.”

Atlas is decidedly unimpressed by this, not that Shiro can blame him.—Atlas isn’t used to having to share. He turns around, pointedly giving Shiro the metaphorical cold shoulder as he runs up the stairs. Presumably to steal Shiro’s bed.

“Right, I guess we’re alone then,” Shiro says, turning his attention back on the unconscious and very naked alien on his couch. 

Naked. Naked alien.

There’s a naked alien on his couch. It’s so ludicrous that Shiro knows he’s not dreaming because he never dreams about anything this exciting.

Now that the adrenaline rush is wearing off and Shiro’s no longer terrified the alien might die, he feels a little freer to observe the slope of his nose and the sharp cut of his jaw, and even the thick lashes resting atop his cheekbones. He’s handsome. Unfairly so, actually. 

Shiro eyes rake lower, down across his body again as he takes in the lithe but muscled form. He winces in sympathy at the bruising around his ribs which have gone even more purple and are very likely sprained. Lower and lower his eyes roam, admiring the unfamiliar violet stripes across his hips. He tries to be a gentleman and avoids looking at his dick again despite his burning curiosity. He certainly wouldn’t want anyone ogling him, roles reversed.

“I’m going to get you dressed now. I apologize in advance if these are a little big but I don’t exactly have anything in your size lying around.” 

It’s hard enough getting himself dressed with only one hand, getting an unconscious extraterrestrial who weighs as much as a damn horse is something else entirely.

“How the hell are you so heavy?” Shiro grumbles, trying to tug the shirt down over the alien’s head. For some reason every time he thinks he’s got it, his hand slips and if Shiro didn’t know better he’d swear the alien was suddenly made of lead. He was absolutely not that heavy when Shiro carried him across the farm.

After another few minutes of struggling he gives up, throwing the stupid shirt across the room. “Change of plans. It looks like you’re only getting pants.”

The pants prove to be easy enough to get over his feet but fairly difficult to get onto his body without jostling him too much or accidentally rolling him off the couch. Shiro perseveres despite his frustration.. The alien deserves at least that much modesty. Of course that thought has Shiro spiraling into thoughts about western puritanical ideas about nudity and modesty which he’s not entirely sure translate to alien cultures, but it’s not something he’s willing to risk being wrong about. That, and he’s too damn tired to get philosophical about anything. If nothing else, Shiro feels pretty certain that waking up with your dick out would be awkward in any universe.

Eventually Shiro does get the pajamas all the way up and on, tightening the drawstring so they fit snug around his tiny waist, but he’s far too tired to attempt any type of bow to tighten them without accidentally knotting it.

Once he’s done, Shiro shuffles his feet backward until his back hits the wall. 

Tired. He is so tired.

The adrenaline crash comes swiftly as Shiro slides to the floor, his limbs suddenly made of cement. It occurs to him now that his extraterrestrial visitor didn’t get heavier, but that his fight-or-flight kicked in, giving him the strength to carry him across five acres. It’s an act Shiro’s feeling now, along with lack of sleep and a massive depletion of endorphins. Shiro doesn’t want to fall asleep, especially not on the floor. It’s hard and it’ll make his back stiff and he’s terrified if he closes his eyes when he wakes up his visitor will be gone.

So he fights.

He forces his eyes open over and over until he’s so tired there are tiny little electrical shocks in his head and his eyes water every time he yawns. He fights to stay lucid even as he feels his head slumping, and he fights to stay awake as the first hint of sunlight filters through the living room window.

Eventually he loses his battle. His eyes are too heavy and the pull of sleep is too much to ignore.

The last thing Shiro sees before he drifts into dreamland is the alien’s pretty face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream about Sheith with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813) <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith sleeps, Shiro worries (and explores the spaceship) and Keith discovers Earth food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so excited and humbled by people's excitement for this fic so for everyone reading along thank you. <3
> 
> Also a few people asked and it occurred to me I never put it in the fic but Atlas is an Australian Shepard :)

Shiro comes to consciousness slowly, his limbs still heavy with sleep and his thoughts groggy. So groggy it takes him a few seconds to realize what exactly woke him up.

He keeps his eyes shut, just listening. Almost immediately he becomes aware of movement—the sound of bare feet shuffling across the hardwood floor followed by a crash. If Shiro had to guess based on the distance of the sound and the shattering of glass he’d guess the lamp on the end table just broke. 

Shiro goes from sleepy to awake in two seconds flat, adrenaline coursing through his body.

There’s only one person who could be making this noise.

Even before he opens his eyes, he knows what he’s going to see, but it’s still a shock to his system to see his mystery visitor no longer sprawled on the couch unconscious, but moving around his living room. For a second he doesn’t say anything, merely observing as the stranger bends down to examine the broken lamp, a strange guttural sound rumbling from his chest. It’s deeper than an animal growl, less human than a sound Shiro might make—it’s almost otherworldly, and it makes the hairs on the back of Shiro’s neck stand up. 

“It’s okay. It’s just a lamp,” Shiro says.

Dark purple eyes fly to his and before Shiro can get another word out he’s grabbing the broken base of the lamp and holding it up towards Shiro like a sword, discomfort obvious on his face as he backs himself up against the wall. “Stay back.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Shiro tells him, ignoring the intense stiffness in his back and left shoulder in favor of remaining very still. He doesn’t want to make any sudden movements—not even stretching—just in case. It’s not worth the risk. Not when the person in front of him looks ready to escape as it is.

“Who are you?” he asks, clutching the lamp base tighter.

“My name is Shiro.”

“Shiro,” he repeats, as if testing the name on his tongue. “For what purpose did you abduct me?”

At that Shiro splutters. “I didn’t—no. You were hurt. I just…I just wanted to help. You’re not my prisoner.”

The stranger makes another sound at that, quieter than before. It’s less of a growl this time and more of something that sounds very much like a purr. It’s followed by a wince as he drops the broken lamp and clutches his ribs.

“They’re probably sprained,” Shiro offers, sitting up as slowly as possible. “They didn’t feel broken last night, but there’s a lot of bruising and your ship was pretty banged up, and I think your body took the brunt of the impact.”

“You. You saved me,” he says, as if just realizing what’s happening. At that his eyes roam around the room taking it all in.

Shiro nods. “I did my best.”

The stranger wraps his arms tighter around his stomach , eyes narrowing in Shiro’s direction. His expression is impossible to read, whether he’s curious or suspicious Shiro can’t tell. “So you have seen my ship?”

Shiro licks his lips, biting back his own questions. “Yes.”

It’s clearly not what he’s expecting to hear, undisguised surprise flitting across his face before he schools his features. He drops his arms to his side, straightening his shoulders. There’s enough morning light streaming into the room that Shiro can see the pallor spreading across his face. If Shiro had to guess, he’d say from pain. “You will take me.”

“Are you hurting? I have something that could help,” Shiro tries instead, positive this man won’t make it five feet, let alone five acres, without passing out. “It’s in my first aid kit in the closet behind you. Little pills you swallow with water. I, uh, well, I don’t really know how they’ll interact with your biology so I can’t promise they’ll work, but they could help lessen the pain.”

“Pain is an honor,” the stranger says, jaw quivering. “I am not afraid of pain.”

It’s on the tip of Shiro’s tongue to ask what he is afraid of, but he doesn’t. It’s too soon for something like that.

“I can take you to your ship when you’re better, if…if you want to leave.” Shiro’s not sure why the thought stings. Shiro doesn’t know him, and he doesn’t even realistically expect him to stay. There’s no reason for an alien to want to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere on a farm with no one for company but Shiro and a handful of misfit animals Shiro rescued. But Shiro’d still naively hoped he might linger a little— long enough for Shiro to get some answers or maybe even get to know him.

“It took me many quintant to get here. I do not wish to leave,” the alien grits out, stepping forward. “There is something I need.”

Shiro’s about to ask what it is when he steps forward again, then stumbles. Before he can second guess the decision, Shiro’s up and across the room in two seconds flat to place a steadying hand under his shoulder.

“I’d feel a lot better if you would lay down on the couch.” Shiro almost points out that he looks on the verge of passing out but he resists, pretty sure that won’t go over well.

“I am not weak,” he says, body swaying again. “Your planet’s gravity is strange. That is all.”

“Of course,” Shiro agrees, urging him towards the couch.

“It’s the gravity,” he repeats, resting a substantial amount of his body weight against Shiro’s side. Despite his words, he allows Shiro to help, though Shiro’s aware that’s likely more due to desperation than any kind of trust.

“Gravity in space is different,” Shiro offers, leading him forward slowly. “I felt lighter there—more free. There’s nothing like it.”

He stumbles again, eyes widening as they shoot up to Shiro’s. “You have been to space.”

Shiro nods, throat tightening. “Yes.”

“You were an explorer?” he questions, his hand fisting in Shiro’s open flannel as Shiro eases him down onto the couch. There’s something wild in his eyes—something searching.

“I was,” Shiro agrees softly. 

_Was_ , he thinks. Past tense. 

“But you are human.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You are human and you have been to space,” he says again, like he can’t believe it. “Will you tell me?”

“What do you want to know?” Shiro asks, wrong-footed by the unexpected attention. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that he might be as interesting to this strange visitor as he is to Shiro.

“Everything,” he breathes.

Shiro swallows again, unable to recall the last time someone asked him anything about himself. Anything that wasn’t for a psych report or his honorable discharge from the Garrison anyhow.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know, if you’ll lay down,” Shiro bargains. He doesn’t think it’ll work but it’s the only leverage he’s got and if he won’t rest he’s at risk or injuring himself further—possibly enough where Shiro’s limited first aid training won’t be sufficient. 

“I told you I am not weak,” he says, though he lays himself back on the couch. 

“It’s not weak to need rest, it’s part of being human. Or uh…well…um, I’m not sure what you are but—”

“I am human,” he says quietly, so quietly Shiro doubts he heard him. At least until he speaks again. “Half. And my name is Keith.”

“Keith,” Shiro repeats, unable to fight back his own smile. 

“Do you enjoy my name?” he asks, making Shiro blush.

“It’s um…it’s a very nice name.”

“My mother said it was my father’s choosing. Back on my planet it was…” he pauses, “I think many did not enjoy my name. It is not a Galran name. I am proud of my name.”

“I enjoy it very much,” Shiro assures him. 

The confession makes his cheeks warm but he doesn’t regret saying it, not when it has Keith ducking his head in a poor attempt to hide his smile.

“So if you’re half human and half—”

“Half Galra,” Keith finishes.

The confession sends a shock wave of surprise through Shiro. Not only does he now have a name for the alien race who saved him, he has a name for the alien in front of him.

“Galra,” Shiro repeats, tasting the names on his tongue. He has no idea how many species of aliens exist, or if the Galra might be the same ones Shiro saw on his own failed mission. But even if they aren’t, having a name for a part of something that for so many years has been taboo to even think about makes his chest feel funny. 

Not once has Shiro doubted his own sanity, despite knowing everyone else did. After his accident there’d been so much he was unsure of—himself, his future, who he trusted. But aliens? That he had never questioned. He knew without a shred of doubt they were real. How could he not when every time he closed his eyes he saw the face of the one who had saved him—yellow eyes staring back at him.

Aliens are real, and Shiro has a name for them. Or at least one species of them, anyway. 

Despite the humanoid appearance of the person on his couch, it’s impossible for Shiro to deny how very surprised he still is by the confession. Finding out Aliens were real had been hard enough to swallow once. The new knowledge that not only are they real but that apparently aliens and humans can procreate is something else entirely. 

He has so many questions. _Was he born in space or on Earth? Where did his parents meet? How did they meet? Is this why he knows English? Why did he come to Earth?_

Questions. Shiro has so many questions it’s hard to breathe. As fast as Shiro thinks of one, another springs forth.

_Have aliens been to Earth before? Why are you here now? Are more coming? Do you know who saved me?_

The last one feels too crazy to ever give voice to. In the vastness of the universe, the odds of the stranger in front of him knowing the alien who helped send Shiro’s ship back home is slim to none. But just thinking about the question, about his past, makes his heart race.

Suddenly the walls of Shiro’s carefully crafted existence here are shaken.

By the time Shiro is able to calm himself down enough to speak it's apparently too late to do so. It’s clear he’s been lost in thought for far too long, because Keith is now fast asleep—one arm and leg dangling off the edge of the couch as he slumbers. No longer worried about startling him, Shiro takes the opportunity to squat down and get a good look at him. The bruising on his ribs is purple tinged with green, though surprisingly not as bad as Shiro expected, and he’s pleased to see that none of his cuts have reopened. The temptation to check his pulse is strong but Shiro resists, unwilling to risk disturbing his sleep. Instead, he lets the even cadence of his breathing and the steady rise and fall of his chest tell Shiro everything he needs to know—he’s okay.

Shiro’s not sure how long he lingers beside the couch, watching Keith for any signs of discomfort or distress, before Atlas comes bounding down the stairs.

“Good morning, buddy. Not sore at me any longer?”

Atlas’s feet pitter patter across the floor until he’s close enough to bump his snout into Shiro’s side as he lets out a soft bark.

“Shh, don’t wake our friend,” Shiro says, rubbing Atlas’s side. 

Atlas barks again in an uncharacteristic act of disobedience. 

“Okay, I got the memo,” Shiro tells him seriously, rising to stand. “Will you forgive me if I feed you?”

That changes Atlas’s tune instantly, his ears perking up and his tail wagging vigorously.

“I thought you might like that,” Shiro laughs. He pats Atlas’s side one last time before standing back up and nodding toward the kitchen. “Why don’t you follow me. I’m not sure how long he might sleep but we better go cook just in case.”

Atlas hesitates, slowly inching closer to the sleeping body on the sofa. He sniffs his hand, tentatively licking his fingers. When he doesn’t move, Atlas does it again.

“I guess I’ll go eat all the pancakes by myself,” Shiro announces, earning him a curious head tilt from Atlas. Shiro knows he’s got him now. “Pancakes.”

* * *

Half an hour later the kitchen is full of the sounds and smells of morning. Shiro’s got two batches of pancakes going on his skillet—one made with grain free flour, eggs and bananas for Atlas and a second batch made with flour and buttermilk for Shiro and their guest. Or at least, Shiro hopes he might like pancakes. 

As the pancakes sizzle and brown, the sounds of the day beginning filter in through the open kitchen window—birds chirping, chickens clucking and the goats being as noisy as ever. It's familiar and comforting and soothes the itch of discomfort crawling up Shiro's spine. He doesn’t know what might happen when his visitor awakes again, but this right now is reassuring. 

It takes a good fifteen minutes for Shiro to get all the pancakes ready, and as he works he hums to himself, scooping out the batter and plopping it on the griddle, waiting until little bubbles form before flipping it. Slowly but surely the plates beside Shiro fill up high with stacks of fluffy pancakes. By the time he’s turning off the griddle and depositing the dishes in the sink, Shiro’s own hunger is undeniable, but something still makes him hesitate from sitting down to eat.

Atlas shares no such qualms, his normally calm behavior replaced by frantic energy in the face of pancakes. He huffs and huffs, his tail wagging vigorously as he looks up and down from the empty floor to Shiro and over to the pancakes.

“Okay, okay,” Shiro chuckles, placing several of the doggy safe pancakes onto a plate then setting it on the floor.

There’s no hesitation on Atlas’s part before he digs in with enthusiasm, as if Shiro hasn’t fed him in a week. Shiro grins, allowing himself a small moment of satisfaction and pretending it’s his culinary skills that have Atlas wolfing them down and not just the fact that it’s almost an hour past the time he normally eats. 

By the time Atlas is done with his second stack of pancakes, Shiro’s stomach is growling too much to ignore any longer. He plates his own pancakes, adding a generous amount of pure maple syrup and butter, but before he settles in to eat them he goes back to the living room to check on the man on his couch. As expected by the distinct lack of sounds, he’s still fast asleep. Shiro doesn’t linger this time, though he does grab the spare blanket from the closet to cover him up before returning to the kitchen to eat his own breakfast. 

He eats slowly, his attention more focused on the noises around him than the taste of his own food. He keeps his ears open for any sounds coming from the other room but there are none. Shiro does his best to resist the urge to repeatedly check on the slumbering man in the other room, forcing himself to rinse the dishes and load the dishwasher instead. 

An hour later—bread dough proofing and kitchen spotless—Shiro gives up pretending his curiosity isn't going to eat him alive and checks on Keith with Atlas following behind him. 

He’s still asleep, but the sun is high in the sky now, flooding the living room in its warm glow. The blanket Shiro had placed on him earlier has been kicked to the floor, which is probably why the pajama pants are sitting so low on his hips his dick is almost out.

Beside him, Atlas whines. “I know. I want him to wake up too, buddy, but if he’s sleeping he needs it, so we probably shouldn’t just stare. It’s rude.”

If Atlas could talk, Shiro imagines his dog would agree with him right now.

“We should probably go outside, feed the animals.” Atlas’s ears perk up at the suggestion. “You want to go outside?”

In a clear answer, Atlas runs to the door and bites Shiro’s boots, dragging them back to him.

“Alright, alright. But I’ve got to change first,” Shiro laughs, suddenly aware that he’s still only wearing his boxers and a flannel. Once again Atlas follows him upstairs as he changes. As expected, Shiro’s bed is a disaster, all the blankets and pillows on the floor and Atlas’s favorite stuffed dog toy—a hippo with a broken squeaker in the tummy—deposited safely in the middle. Shiro once tried to replace it with a new version of the exact same toy, which Atlas had promptly taken and buried in the garden as if offended by the sight of it. Shiro hasn’t tried to touch the hippo (or replace it) since. 

“I see someone was comfortable last night.”

Atlas whines, ears turning down as if he were in trouble.

“It’s okay, Atlas.” He reaches down, ruffling his fur. “At least someone used the bed last night.”

No longer worried about getting in trouble—not that Shiro has ever actually made him get off the bed anyway— Atlas bounds onto the mattress, snatching up his hippo and plopping into the center of the king-sized bed where he proceeds to chew on the ear while watching Shiro rummage around for something clean to wear. Most of his stuff is dirty since it’s laundry day, which means his options are low. Living alone means Shiro doesn’t have to worry about what he wears— or if he wears much of anything— but that’s no longer the case, and he doesn’t quite feel comfortable doing his daily chores in nothing but his boxers. In the end he settles on his oldest pair of jeans buried in the back of his closet—worn thin in the ass with holes in the knees—and a plain white t-shirt that by some miracle has no holes or stains.

Five minutes later, Shiro is jogging back downstairs with Atlas at his heels—prized hippo still clutched tightly in his jaw. Shiro watches with no small amount of curiosity as Atlas meanders over to the sleeping stranger slowly, carefully depositing his hippo on the center of his chest. Shiro watches the bedraggled hippo rise and fall on his slumbering chest and Atlas turns his face on Shiro, clearly pleased with himself.

Normally Atlas doesn’t even let Shiro touch the hippo, at least not since the ill-fated replacement attempt. But now unprompted he’s placed it on the stranger—almost like some sort of protective amulet. It makes the weird thudding sensation in his chest return tenfold.

“That’s nice of you to share, Atlas.”

Atlas chuffs, pawing at the rug when the man doesn't move, not even with the hippo there.

“I know, buddy. I’m worried too but I think…I think he’s just sleeping this time.”

The temptation to sit on the floor again and just watch him until he wakes up is strong, but Shiro has no idea how long aliens sleep, or how deeply, so he resists. Especially since doing nothing but sitting would likely result in far too much time for _thinking_ and because none of the animals care who’s sleeping on Shiro’s couch, or what type of existential crisis he’s currently having, they still need to eat. It’s one of the things Shiro likes best about living out here. The crops and the animals don’t care about things like how many limbs a person has or stupid small town gossip. Every day the sun rises and sets, the plants continue to grow, and the animals need to be cared for and fed regardless of whatever shit a person might be going through—every day is the same, and Shiro likes it.

Usually anyway. Today it feels strange to go about his day as if everything's the same when everything feels different. It’s _strange_ to be getting dressed to go let Kaltenecker out to pasture or to be thinking about feeding the chickens when there’s an honest-to god-alien asleep in his living room and a crashed spaceship at the edge of his farm. 

The more he thinks about it, the more a prickle of anxiety creeps in, but Shiro does his best to push it away in favor of sliding his feet into his tied boots. He’s only gonna be in the back of the house feeding the animals and then come right back in. He’ll be gone an hour at most and have an unobstructed view of the back door most of the time. Nothing bad can happen, and Keith said he wasn’t going to leave, so all Shiro can do is trust that he meant what he said.

With one last glance at Keith’s slumbering form, Shiro makes his way outside.

Instead of the normal hour or so it usually takes Shiro to get all the animals fed it takes much, much longer—something Shiro can only blame on himself. After he lets the chickens out of the coop and gives them their food, he heads all the way back to the house to check if Keith is still asleep (he is). After that he heads to the barn to let Kaltenecker out to pasture, Shiro somehow finds his feet moving back to the house to check once more (he’s still asleep). It goes like that all morning as he feeds the barn cats, then back to the house, feeds the goats, then back to the house, feeds his horse, then back to the house. Each time he returns to the exact same thing—Keith’s peaceful sleeping face, a bit of drool falling out of his mouth, and infinite amounts of pale skin and soft purple markings on display.

By the time Shiro finishes his morning chores, his stomach is grumbling for lunch. With Atlas in tow he makes his way back to the house, checks on Keith one last time then heads back into the kitchen. After wolfing down his own food, Atlas curls up on the floor beneath the large back window to nap as Shiro gets his no-knead loaf of bread into the oven. While the bread bakes, Shiro sets out getting things together for lunch—washing up some recent bounties from his garden including a vine-ripened tomato, a zucchini the size of his forearm, and a bit of arugula along with a handful of fresh strawberries and blackberries. 

Once the bread is done baking and has had a chance to cool, Shiro’s stomach is growling louder than a bear, and Keith is _still_ slumbering away. He sets about slicing the bread into thick pieces, piling the sandwiches high with slices of fresh tomato, zucchini, a handful of arugula, and a generous helping of the last of his homemade goat cheese. He makes a second sandwich just in case but by the time he’s done eating his own and cleaned up the kitchen for the second time, it’s clear his alien visitor is still deep asleep. After checking his pulse to reassure himself that he has not, in fact, died, Shiro wraps up the leftover sandwich in wax paper and deposits it in the fridge alongside the extra pancakes.

Afterward, Shiro heads back outside where he paces back and forth across his back porch for a good twenty minutes before accepting the fact that if he doesn’t do _something_ while he waits, he might crawl out of his skin. Then it hits him. _The Spaceship._ The man inside had wanted something off his ship. Shiro can get it for him. 

He’s going back to the ship.

The lingering ache in his knees and exhaustion from sleeping poorly disappears in the face of a sudden rush of endorphins. _He’s going back to the ship._ The alien ship. The alien ship that crash landed last night.

A laugh bubbles out of Shiro before he can quell it.

Shiro leaves Atlas in the yard chasing butterflies as he runs back into the house, making quick work of getting ready. He locates an empty backpack in the hall closet then fills his water bottle just in case. He throws in a spare work glove and a few tools from under the sink, then heads back outside to depart. Atlas barks loudly when he realizes the direction they’re heading, running ahead of Shiro but always circling back to make sure Shiro is following him. 

It’s slow going since Shiro isn’t in a rush like the night before, and the midday sun is too hot for Shiro to have any desire to run all the way there if it’s not strictly necessary. Shiro’s steps are even and quick as he tries to keep up with Atlas who, by the time they’ve passed the barn, clearly knows where they’re going.

Fifteen minutes later, Shiro’s t-shirt is clinging to his body and heavy lines of sweat drip down his neck. He pauses in the shade, chugging down half his water bottle before continuing on. The closer he gets to the crash site, the more his heart speeds up, and by the time he’s slipping through the trees, it’s thudding in his ears so loud he can barely hear Atlas barking beside him in excitement. 

The thudding in his ears stops, everything going silent the moment he steps out into the clearing, and his eyes land on the ship. It seems even bigger today and no less impressive despite the hours Shiro’s had to process its existence. Years of being on the other side of a plane have Shiro’s blood pumping with excitement as his gaze roams over the massive wings and up to the sleek cockpit. He can’t help but wonder how this thing flies, how easily it takes sharp turns and even how fast those massive engines can really go. 

“Come on boy, let’s explore,” Shiro tells Atlas, his pace speeding up to a run now that he’s got his eyes on the prize.

Once he’s close enough, Shiro shrugs the backpack off then does a cursory perimeter check to assess for damage. Despite the obvious issues with the wings and propulsion system, the ship itself is a thing of beauty. Shiro takes several long minutes walking around it a second and third time to take in the impressive aerodynamic design and aesthetically pleasing appearance. It’d been impossible to tell in the dark, but in the light of day Shiro can see intricate swirls of purple inlaid in the wings, so dark they’re almost black. He climbs up onto the right side, down on his knees as he runs his hand over them, his curiosity magnifying tenfold as he realizes they’re not just for looks. In fact, it’s not even swirls at all, but words. Alien words. _Galra_ his brain corrects, still unable to believe he’s got this type of proof for something he’s only been allowed to privately acknowledge as truth for so long.

Back on the ground, Atlas races in circles, clearly as fascinated with the ship as Shiro is. Not that Shiro is too surprised, back when he’d barely been a year old he’d acted much the same the one time Shiro had been allowed to bring him to the Garrison before his ill-fated flight to leave him with a friend for the time he was going to be gone. 

“I like it too, buddy,” Shiro says, not really loud enough for Atlas to hear as he traces the strange language. There’s something beautiful about it, almost as if the words themselves are some sort of art. Shiro was too out of it from oxygen deprivation to remember if the Galra who saved him had been in a ship like that, but he wonders.

He wonders a lot of things.

Shiro spends longer than he should crawling across the wings, trying to memorize the looping script and wondering what the words might sound like spoken aloud. Eventually he forces himself to stop examining them, aware that whatever's so meaningful on this ship is likely something that Shiro can remove and not a wing the size of his roof. 

He needs to get inside the cockpit. Relief floods Shiro when he notices that the aircraft canopy is still open and he quickly clambers up the rest of the way to get a peek inside. He forces himself to not spend an hour examining the unfamiliar control panel in favor or trying to spot something that doesn’t belong, but if there’s something there he doesn’t see it. What he needs is a closer look.

Throwing his legs over the side, he slides down into the cockpit, ass plopping into the pilot’s chair. There are more words engraved across the dash, and in lieu of any obvious steering apparatus there’s a series of buttons along the right side. Curiosity rising, Shiro can’t resist reaching out. He’s careful not to actually touch anything for fear of accidentally turning something on that he can't turn off. 

He’s pretty sure it’s either his imagination, or maybe the midday summer sun, but he swears warmth radiates beneath his palm as it hovers over the control panel. It’s only a few minutes later when Shiro’s throat goes tight that it occurs to him this is the first time he’s been in a spaceship since his own crash. He’s got enough therapy under his belt that Shiro doesn’t feel the kind of panic he might have had in the past—the kind he had following his accident. The fact everything from the pilot’s chair to the control panel is so different helps too.

Beneath the unease is something else, something familiar but unexpected— something that feels a hell of a lot like excitement.

Until this very moment, he hadn’t realized how much he missed being in the cockpit. Memories—good memories—flood Shiro as he closes his eyes, tipping his head back against the seat so his face is turned up against the sun. It warms his skin as he breathes deeply and remembers.

The pride when he’d finally got his pilot’s license.

The thrill of the engine rumbling to life beneath him.

The wide-eyed wonder and awe the first time he’d seen space with his own two eyes—not in a photograph but spread out before him—vast and limitless.

He remembers the exhilaration and excitement, and the joy.

So many of those memories had been lost to what came after—confusion, loss and pain. But the things that came before that, the reasons he’d spent his entire life dreaming of flying—of going to space—resurface now. It’d been those memories that helped him get over the loss of his arm, because ultimately the thing that had helped him accept his new normal was the reality that despite what had happened to him, he wouldn’t have changed a thing. Shiro had made it to space, and that was something no one else could take from him even if that legacy was tarnished by the words _pilot error_ and the contact he’d signed that sentenced him to a future of silence about his experiences. 

Shiro knew the truth then and he knows it now—he’s a pilot. It’s been nearly two years since he thought of himself as one, but muscle memory is powerful, and Shiro’s body remembers exactly what it felt like to sit in the pilot’s seat like he is now.

It’s not until Atlas barks that Shiro comes back to himself, remembering exactly why he’s here, and it sure as hell isn’t a trip down memory lane. Though Shiro’s hard-pressed to deny that it feels good to have gotten lost in those memories—ones he packed away a long time ago. Nonetheless, they're memories he doesn't have time for, not right now. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know buddy,” Shiro yells, eyes roaming over the cockpit for any kind of hiding spot. He finds one not long after—an area that looks like the wall except for a barely noticeable line engraved along the side—a line that turns out to be a hidden compartment. As he runs his thumb along the crack, he finds a hidden latch and pops it open. Inside is a folded up map with a set of stars that are definitely not from Earth, a journal filled with untidy scrawl, with a mix of the Galran language from the side of the ship and random words written in English that Shiro resists reading despite his burning curiosity. It’s also filled with small doodles with unfamiliar plants and constellations. Beneath the journal is a leather bag filled with something that smells of rich spices, and hidden at the bottom is a beautiful knife, the handle inlaid with more elaborate words in the language of the Galra and sheathed inside of a worn leather holder. 

Unsure which of the items from the hidden compartment might be what Keith wanted, Shiro takes them all—shoving what he can in his pockets and shoving the rest under his arm. By the time he’s climbing out of the cockpit and sliding down the left wing the sun is low enough in the distance that Shiro knows it’s well past dinner. A spike of guilt hits him at all the time he’s wasted being nosy and reminiscing, and he only hopes he’s not been gone too long.

There’s a possibility his new alien friend is still sound asleep on the couch. There’s also a possibility _he’s not_. Shiro’s pretty sure with his spaceship out here and too damaged to get back in the air, and still recovering from his injuries—and what he’d said before he passed out again—that he wouldn’t just leave. But Shiro doesn’t know that, not for sure. 

The one thing Shiro does know is that sometimes the impossible is true.

It’s a truth that rattles through his brain as he slides down the side of the plane—landing safely this time without an armful of unconscious alien. It rattles through his brain as he fills his backpack with what he’d found in the ship, unsure if he will get a chance to give Keith his things or find out how he knows English.

The more the thought takes hold, the faster Shiro moves—hoisting the backpack back on and whistling for Atlas to follow. The trek back to the house is quicker, if only because Shiro’s walking turns to speed walking and then jogging and eventually he’s flat out sprinting across the farm.

 _Please be here. Please be safe_ he thinks, as the house comes into view.

Shiro doesn’t think he can run any faster but somehow he does—sprinting up the back steps so fast his legs burn, opening the back door with more force than is strictly necessary. The rusty hinges squeak as the door swings open, handle slamming against the wood. The door ricochets and Shiro grimaces. It’s not the first time he’s come close to breaking the door off the hinges. 

His movements only slow once he steps inside the house. He has enough forethought to kick his muddy shoes off by the door before swiftly moving towards the living room.

 _Be on the couch_ he thinks as he crosses the kitchen.

_Be on the couch. Please be on the couch._

He is not on the couch.

Shiro’s heart stutters in his chest as Atlas skids in behind him. Not even Atlas nosing at his hand is enough to tear Shiro’s eyes away from the empty couch. He hadn’t thought—no.

Keith can’t be gone. He can’t be.

A wet tongue laps at Shiro’s hand but he stands stock still, too shocked to move. He’d been so sure he’d still be here.

 _Gone._ He’s gone.

Atlas barks and when Shiro doesn’t respond he does it again louder, clearly trying to get Shiro’s attention. 

“What is it, Atlas?” Shiro whispers, still staring at the empty couch and wondering why his heart feels so funny. This shouldn’t be hitting Shiro so hard. He doesn’t know him, but the ache in his chest is too strong to ignore as anything but what it is—bone deep disappointment like Shiro has never known.

For a third time Atlas barks and Shiro finally looks up.

“Why are you—oh.”

Standing there at the base of the stairs blinking at him with big eyes and sleep mussed hair is Keith, still in Shiro’s home and wearing Shiro’s too-big pajama bottoms. He is also coming down from the stairs that lead to Shiro’s bedroom.

“Hello,” Shiro whispers, voice cracking.

“Greetings,” he answers back.

Shiro’s heart jumps straight into his throat.

“You’re awake,” Shiro observes, immediately wanting to kick himself for stating the obvious. The alien cocks his head, taking another step down the stairs and Shiro’s brain stops working. “Obviously. Obviously you are awake because you’re standing and talking and…and oh my god you’re awake and in my house. There’s an alien in my house.”

Shiro scrubs his hand across his cheek, willing the earth to swallow him whole.

“Are you the master of this domicile?” Keith queries. 

“Am I—er, yes? I mean, sort of? It’s my house if that’s what you mean. I’m not anyone’s master though.”

Keith tilts his head to the side, pointed ears twitching. “You saved me.”

Shiro swallows, nodding. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“You needed me,” Shiro answers, as if it's as simple as that. 

“I did not know humans were so kind,” he answers, inching closer. 

Shiro shrugs. “Anyone would have done it. You were hurt. You were—wait you were hurt. The cuts and bruises and—” Shiro’s mouth falls open as he realizes the vivid purple bruises around his sprained ribs are gone along with the bandages he’d put on. If Shiro hadn’t been the one to patch him up the night before, hadn’t had his blood on his hands quite literally, he wouldn’t have believed he had even a scratch on him. 

“I am okay.”

Shiro breathes slowly. It’s not until he’s mere inches away from him that he realizes he is the one who closed the distance between them. 

“You were hurt,” he whispers. 

Keith’s eyebrows furrow. “You were worried?”

Shiro nods. “Yes. Yes, I was worried.”

“But you do not know me.”

 _No but I’d like to,_ he wants to say.

“No I don’t,” is what he says instead.

Keith purrs, a sound so quiet it can almost be brushed aside as Shiro’s imagination. “Humans are very confusing.”

“Do Galra not worry about others?” Shiro asks.

“I would worry about my clan, yes. But I can not worry about everyone. There are too many. It would be a waste of energy.”

“I don’t think it’s a waste to care about people,” Shiro says, softer than he means to.

For long seconds he is silent, clearly appraising Shiro. When he speaks, what he says is about the last thing Shiro might have ever expected.

“I enjoy you.”

“You— _what_?”

“I enjoy you,” Keith repeats. It’s no less shocking the second time. “You are a good example of the human species I think. It is lucky I landed here. Do you have food?”

Shiro blinks, wondering if maybe this time it was he who hit his head and this is all a dream. Shiro’s no dummy—top of his class all through school and then top of his flight class. He’s always been able to handle himself under extreme pressure and deal with the unexpected, which is exactly why he’d been the one picked for the Kerberos mission and part of what helped him accept the changes in his life after his accident.

Standing here now though, watching a pretty alien who appears to have magically healed scratching his fingers across his belly—Shiro feels really damn dumb.

“Food. Yes. There’s food here,” he mumbles and yeah he’s definitely missing some brain cells right now. He sticks out his arm, pointing to the kitchen. “That way.”

The stranger nods, raising his arms overhead in a long stretch. A stretch which makes the pajama bottoms slip down to sit low on his hips—the long purple stripes along the cut of his hips on full display as he nods then walks towards the kitchen. As he walks away Shiro finds it impossible not to stare at the lithe lines of his back and the little dimples at the base of his spine.

Seconds later once Shiro is left standing alone with Atlas at his side, common sense kicks in and Shiro runs after him with Atlas hot on his tail.

He stands in the kitchen, watching Keith poke at the macrame dishcloth hanging from his stove. It’s worn from age—a little yellowed at the corner and the thread of the cherry blossoms at the bottom is loose. It’s Shiro’s favorite thing in his entire house and he still remembers the look on his grandmother’s face when she’d given it to him for his first apartment. 

His grandmother.

Standing there, confused and unsure, her voice filters into his brain— _A good home starts in the kitchen, Takashi. Always feed your guests and they will come back._

“I have extra pancakes from breakfast I could heat up with syrup, and, uh, an extra sandwich from lunch. I could cook something else too if you don’t like those or—”

“What are _pancakes_?” Keith asks, the word exaggerated with an extra syllable.

“They’re, um…fluffy carb loaded things? You eat with syrup and…how about I just show you,” Shiro says, moving past him to open the fridge. He pulls out the plate of extra pancakes, turning around and setting them on the kitchen table. He peels back the wax paper and holds one up. “See.”

The pancake is snatched from his hand and inhaled.

“Uh…usually we eat them warm.”

Keith chews swiftly, apparently unfazed by the ice cold and syrup-less pancake. His gaze is intense as he chews, never leaving Shiro’s face. 

“I approve of your pancakes. I will have another,” he declares once he’s finished chewing. He holds his hand out and Shiro hands him a second.

“They really are better warmed up with butter and syrup.”

Keith chews and chews, still staring at Shiro. “You will show me?”

Shiro nods, grateful for _something_ to do besides stare. “Yes. But, uh…I have something that’s good cold.”

He shrugs off the backpack, setting it in the corner before returning to the fridge. He pulls out the wrapped sandwich from lunch and puts it on the table then returns to get the bowl of berries and the last slice of his homemade pecan pie he made last week. Unsure if his guest will enjoy it all he returns to the fridge in search of anything else he can easily offer up and comes up with a random assortment of raw vegetables from his garden and a bowl of his homemade hummus.

“You can sit,” Shiro tells him when he remains standing, simply staring at the array of foods Shiro has filled the table with. “And you can eat. Anything you want. I wasn’t sure what you might like so I just put out a little bit of everything,” Shiro says. “And, uh…I’m still going to heat the pancakes up too but just…there’s more. If you’re hungry I mean. You can eat as much as you like is what I mean.”

“Thank you,” Keith says, eyes roaming over the table.

“You’re welcome,” Shiro mumbles, face feeling suddenly hot at the sight of Keith reaching for the sandwich and taking a huge bite. It’s been years since anyone beside Atlas ate Shiro’s cooking and it makes his stomach do a funny flip-flopping thing as he waits to see what he thinks.

“What is this?” Keith asks, turning the sandwich in his hand and lifting the top bread to peek at the inside.

“Oh just a sandwich, with, uh…goat cheese and veggies. Do you like it?”

Keith makes a pleased sound—something between a hum and a purr—as he takes a second, even bigger bite. If possible Shiro’s cheeks heat even further, and he’s pretty sure he’s got to be redder than the tomato on Keith’s sandwich. 

When he’s done chewing he licks his lips and smiles. “I enjoy your witches of sand.”

“I’m glad,” Shiro mumbles, not bothering to correct him. 

Keith gives him a smile, taking a third bite just as big as the last so that the sandwich is almost gone, and Shiro can tell he must _definitely_ be as red as a tomato now, which is ridiculous from someone simply saying they like his stupid sandwich. Not excited by the idea of embarrassing himself, Shiro turns around, flipping on the stove and pulling out his favorite cast iron pan. Pancakes. He needs to heat the pancakes.

Behind him Keith continues to eat, and Shiro refuses to look or he might actually implode. Instead, he plops in a hefty pat of butter, waiting until it’s melted and bubbling before dropping in the pancakes. He uses his spatula to move them around, ensuring each one gets coated in the butter as it warms. They won’t be exactly the same as freshly-made, but they’re damn close and worlds away from eating them ice cold. He waits until the pancakes are toasty and warm—the air rich with the sweet aroma of butter and pancakes—before warming up the maple syrup in a coffee mug. It’s slow going since he can only fit two pancakes in the skillet and he absolutely refuses to warm them in the microwave and have them turn chewy. 

After a few minutes, the plate beside him is finally piled high with pancakes, the edges nice and crispy just the way Shiro likes them. He manages to grab the handle of the mug, then the pancake plate with his thumb before turning around to give them to Keith—surprised to find the table nearly devoid of the food he’d just put there. The sandwich is gone along with most of the veggies and half the bowl of hummus. All that’s left of the pie are a few crumbs, and every berry—including the greens of the strawberries—are gone.

“Do you still want the pancakes?” Shiro asks, unsure where Keith fit so much food so fast, or if he will even still want the pancakes.

“Yes,” Keith answers without hesitation, pushing the empty plate from in front of him away to make space.

It’s on the tip of Shiro’s tongue to ask what Keith thought of the food, but he doesn’t want to fish for compliments, not when the lack of food makes it obvious that it was at least edible. Instead, he walks around the table, leaning forward to carefully deposit the plate and mug down without spilling anything,

“Who is your cook?” Keith asks, digging right in. He picks up a piping hot pancake as if there are no heat receptors in his hand, again eating it like a cracker.

“My what now?” Shiro says, only half paying attention.

“Your cook,” Keith repeats, taking a bite of the pancake. His eyes widen as he looks down between the pancake and Shiro several times and for one horrifying moment Shiro thinks maybe he burned the butter but then Keith jams the entire thing in his mouth. He’s saying something, but his mouth is too full of food for Shiro to have any idea what it is, so he just waits.

Keith chews and chews and chews some more, and when he’s done he reaches for the mug of syrup and instead of pouring it over the remaining pancakes he lifts it to drink.

“Oh, no that’s— _okay_ ,” Shiro mumbles, watching with a mix of bewilderment and awe as Keith chugs the syrup like it was water.

When he’s done, Keith slams the mug down on the table and grins. “My compliments to your cook. This food is full of delight. I enjoy it very much.”

Shiro’s blush, which had started to abate, flares to life. “Oh that’s, uh…me. I am the cook. Or well, yeah. I cooked.”

Keith is clearly surprised as he picks up another pancake, though instead of taking a bite, he merely shakes it in the air. It flops side to side, not unlike Shiro’s stomach.

“I knew when I saw you that you would be lucky.”

“Lucky,” Shiro repeats, more confused than ever. “Me? Why?”

“Your hair,” Keith says, waggling the pancake in his direction. “You have been touched by starlight.”

Shiro can feel the flush on his cheeks spread down his neck as his hand flies up to his hair and the streak of white in the front. When he’d left for space it’d been all black and when he’d come home and finally woken up from his multiple surgeries, he hadn’t recognized the person staring back at him—one arm missing and his hair turned white as snow in the front. The doctors had rattled off a lot of possibilities about the cause—atmospheric pressure, intense stress, and on and on went their guesses for why Shiro’s hair had changed. 

In the end Shiro hadn’t cared about the _why_. What Shiro cared about was the way people stared at him, at the questions his appearance invoked in every stranger he passed—scared and missing his right arm with a scar across his face. He knows he’s not exactly normal looking, whatever the hell normal is. Mostly Shiro’s gotten used to the hair, even if he sometimes wears a hat when he goes into town to avoid the extra stares it causes. Mostly. Sometimes he even forgets that it’s so white in the front since he doesn’t often have a reason to look in mirrors out here all on his own.

“Lucky,” Shiro repeats, twisting the long bit of hair in the front that falls across his forehead around his forefinger to try and get a better look at it.

Shiro hasn’t felt lucky in a long time. Not really. Lucky to be alive, sure, but not _lucky_ and sure as hell not kissed by the stars.

“Yes,” Keith agrees, without a damn clue the way he’s just sent Shiro’s world spinning on its axis. “Sometimes a Galra is born with white in their hair. It is considered a great honor to the entire clan. To the Galra the mark…it is a sign that the stars have blessed you. You are lucky. _Special._ ”

“I’m just me. Just Shiro,” he breathes.

Keith’s face transforms, a small but unmistakable smile spreading across it. “I am excited to know you, just Shiro.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream about Sheith with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro and Keith finally have a conversation, Keith is not a morning person and Shiro learns that Galra have no qualms about being naked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this fic has been so exciting I can't thank everyone who has been supporting this fic enough. We're almost at the halfway point now and i'm just so excited for everyone to see Shiro and Keith get to know each other.

Once Keith has polished off the remainder of the pancakes, all the hummus (directly off his fingers, apparently he’s not a fan of carrots), and three extra slices of the bread Shiro baked earlier, each one slathered in butter (this he apparently enjoys a great deal). He also requests another mug of mead twice even after Shiro tells him it’s pancake syrup and not a beverage. Shiro flat out refuses, as politely as possible that is, to give him, not because he’s rationing his maple syrup, but because he’s afraid Keith might throw up if he ingests more sugar. Instead he gives him a huge glass of rosemary and lemon water which he seems to enjoy as well too, downing three glasses of it.

“Are you still hungry?” Shiro asks. He’s pretty sure the answer will be no, but he wants to make sure. He has no idea when Keith last ate, or how much an alien can eat. 

“I could not eat another bite,” Keith groans, leaning back in his chair and tipping the legs off the floor. 

He stretches his arms over his head again, arching his back as he lets out a soft noise that rattles in his chest. Shiro forces his eyes away from the expanse of Keith’s abdomen and up to his face. There is so much he wants to ask, so much he wants to know—he doesn’t even know where to begin.

“Now I must go,” Keith declares, startling Shiro from his thoughts. He’d thought, after what he said before that he wouldn’t be leaving so soon. Shiro has to remind himself that just because he’s curious doesn’t mean he has any claim on Keith—he’s not entitled to his secrets or his truths.

All the same, the idea of him leaving already makes the bottom drop out of Shiro’s stomach. “Go?”

Keith nods, pushing his chair away from the table but when he rises to stand he wobbles looking unsteady on his feet. He grabs onto the edge of the table to steady himself, but Shiro is already up from his side of the table and beside Keith, placing his hand on his arm. “Okay, well you’re not going anywhere. Not right now anyway. You need to rest.”

Keith huffs indignantly. “I am healed.”

Healed. Shiro still has questions about that, but right now his main concern is making sure Keith doesn’t end up unconscious again.

“You’re dizzy.”

“It is the gravity,” Keith says, echoing his statement from earlier. “I will adjust soon.”

“Maybe that’s all it is. I’m not going to pretend to know anything about alien biology, but I would really feel a hell of a lot better if you could rest. I think maybe you just need to sit or lay down for a little bit. You just ate a lot and you’re still healing.”

Keith’s head droops as if he’s been sentenced to death and not told to relax. 

“It’s just for a little bit. Maybe an hour.” Shiro’s mouth goes dry as he forces out the next words. “And then…if you still need to leave I’ll help you. Give you any supplies I can. I’ve got a truck if you need and—”

“What is a truck?” Keith asks.

“Oh, it’s, uh…it’s sort of like your ship. Except much smaller, and it doesn’t fly it’s got wheels that let it glide across the Earth. It’s for going places.”

“And you will give it to me?” Keith asks, hands coming up to hold onto Shiro’s side. 

Shiro ignores the stutter in his chest as Keith’s fingers squeeze his sides. He’s not doing it on purpose, he’s probably just still dizzy. Except, Shiro can’t remember the last time anyone touched him. Keith does it again, grip tight, and Shiro feels his own wave of dizziness hit him. It’s just a primal bodily reaction to human contact, that’s all. 

“If you need it. Your ship is…damaged. You can’t get anywhere in that. If there’s somewhere you need to go, I won’t make you stay or stop you from leaving. And if I can help make it easier—” he stops, throat tightening. The idea of Keith going off on his own makes Shiro feel nauseous. It’s ridiculous, Shiro doesn’t know him and Keith certainly looks like he could handle himself—but Shiro knows exactly how the government treats things that are different— _people_ who are different. 

“You are a good man, Just Shiro.”

Shiro barks out a laugh. “Shiro. Call me, Shiro.”

“Shiro,” he repeats. 

He breathes in deeply through his nose, willing himself not to do anything embarrassing. “Will you just lay on the couch. For a little bit. Please.”

Keith cocks his head to the side, not unlike Atlas when he’s unsure what to make of one of Shiro’s moods.

“Alright.”

“Alright?” Shiro repeats, somehow shocked at the easy agreement.

“Yes. I will do the rest.”

“Okay, good. This is…good,” Shiro mumbles. “Just, yeah. Good.”

Shiro begins to walk and Keith follows him into the living room, Atlas trailing along behind them. He’s been notably quiet the entire time, sitting on the floor beside Shiro, but Shiro knows he’s been itching to investigate Keith further.

As they enter the living room, Atlas springs onto the edge of the couch, laying his paws out and turning his curious gaze on Keith.

“Do you need anything?” Shiro asks, watching as Keith slowly sits on the couch and resisting the urge to help. On the outside at least, his wounds do truly seem to be gone, and despite his sudden dizziness he certainly looks healthy—healthier than Shiro could have even hoped for the day before. He doesn’t need Shiro fussing, and Shiro doesn’t want to risk making him think he’s weak again.

Keith shakes his head. “You are a generous host. You must be much beloved in your clan.”

Shiro blinks, mouth opening and shutting a few times as he tries to figure out how to respond to that. Shiro’s not ashamed of his life, not even a little bit. He’s not wasting away on his farm sad and lonely the way people seem to think. He hates the way couplehood and children is the pinnacle of society and anything else is seen as _less than_. His being single isn’t some sort of self-inflicted curse. Shiro loves his life, but all the same, he’s fully aware of the way most people perceive a man who lives alone with nothing but his dog and a handful of animals no one else wanted on his farm. 

“It’s just me,” he says after a long moment of silence. “And Atlas.”

Atlas lifts his head at the sound of his name, eyes darting between Keith and Shiro.

“You are alone?” Keith asks and Shiro sighs, waiting for the inevitable fallout or judgment.

Shiro shrugs. “Yeah, just me and my dog. And the animals on the farm.”

“I was led to believe humans were social. Is this not true?”

“Sometimes we are,” Shiro answers evasively. 

Keith seems to be thinking over Shiro’s answer because he’s quiet for a long time. Shiro has the uncomfortable urge to fill the silence but he doesn’t have anything else to say, and his questions are too many to even know where to begin, so he remains silent waiting for Keith to say something instead.

“Are you representative of the human species?” Keith finally asks, making Shiro nearly jump.

“Am I what?”

“The human species,” Keith repeats. “Are others like you? Are you…what is the word…average?”

This time it’s Shiro’s turn to mull things over before responding. He purposely doesn’t spend too much energy thinking about how exactly he compares to most people. He’d gone through a lot of therapy—physical and mental—after his accident and the one thing he’d finally been able to accept was that his own place in the world was finite. Somehow, this acceptance had been freeing. It didn’t matter what other people thought about him or how the world viewed him, all that mattered was how he saw himself. 

All the same, it's a hard question for Shiro to answer. He knows he doesn’t _look_ like most people. He’s a disabled, retired person of color who’s missing one arm and apparently been blessed by stars (though Shiro still privately worries it makes him look much older than his twenty-seven years). It’s exactly the reason he tries not to compare himself to others. There are things he thinks that maybe he’s better at than most people, and things he’s worse at. 

He knows there are people kinder and more selfless than him, and there are people who are probably less so (those at the Garrison and in the press jump to mind). But at the core of it all Shiro thinks most people are the same—most people are good if you give them the chance.

“I suppose I’m pretty average,” he finally answers.

Thankfully Keith accepts this at face value, tapping his fingers against the side of the couch. “Your furry companion is staring at me.”

It’s funny enough that Shiro laughs despite himself. “He’s a dog and his name is Atlas.”

“Your dog is staring,” he corrects, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his folded legs. He widens his eyes, staring back at Atlas who barks.

“Dogs do that. They don’t really get social norms the way humans would.”

Keith hums noncommittally, inching forward. Atlas does the same, crawling across the couch on his belly. Shiro can’t tell which of them is more fascinated by the other.

Atlas chuffs, unused to the attention—his ears perking up. Atlas has never shown aggression to anyone before, but they’ve also never had another person in their home, especially after so much stress. Before Shiro can move to intervene, Atlas lunges forward directly into Keith’s lap and licks a broad stripe across Keith’s face. Then, while Keith is still blinking in obvious surprise he does it again.

Oh.

The strange feeling in Shiro’s chest resurfaces even stronger this time. Atlas likes him.

Atlas likes Keith.

After the accident, Atlas had become protective of Shiro and antisocial. Shiro had even tried taking him to a pet therapist to no avail. Moving out to the farm had done wonders for his anxiety, but it’d taken him six months to get used to the vet when she came out to help with the animals, and he still got too worked up to come with Shiro when he went into town for groceries. Yet here he is licking at Keith’s face like they’re friends.

“Atlas, we don’t lick guests,” Shiro says, but it’s half-hearted at best. 

Keith turns wide eyes on Shiro. He looks unsure what to make of the current situation. “Why is your Atlas licking me?”

“Dogs do that when they’re happy,” Shiro says, unsure why it makes his throat feel wobbly.

He and Atlas have always been okay. Just the two of them. But Shiro is hard-pressed to deny the warmth that floods through him at the sight of Atlas so full of wonder and exuberance with another person besides himself. It reminds him of when he’d first got Atlas as a puppy—eight weeks old and curious about everything. He’d been so small then that Shiro could hold him in one hand. He’s nearly sixty pounds now and no puppy anymore, but he’s still Shiro’s baby—always will be. He’s matured, both from age and extensive dog training. Despite that, though, there’s something sweet about the unfiltered look in his eyes now that he had back then—curiosity, and excitement.

Shiro supposes he’s got things right. It _is_ exciting having Keith in their home. 

It’s other things too of course. It’s a little unnerving and life changing, and Shiro still has so many questions he can barely hear himself think. Then there’s the fact that Keith mentioned leaving again, so he doesn’t have a damn clue what’s going to happen next. But for right now it’s easier to focus on the present and, much like Atlas, Shiro feels his own excitement bubbling to the surface.

There’s an honest-to-god alien on his couch playing with his dog and it’s just—it’s really cool.

As a kid Shiro had believed in aliens. He’d believed in everything—that mermaids lived at the bottom of the sea his grandparents took him to see every summer, that fairies would come and visit if he left scraps of Jiji’s cooking beneath the mushrooms that grew under the oak tree in the backyard and, most especially, that there were aliens. As he grew up he stopped believing, mostly. He still believed in some things—in hard work and faith and the ability to achieve one’s dreams. Fairy tales and make-believe though, those became a thing of his past.

Until one fateful day—or night, Shiro still isn’t sure—when an extraterrestrial boarded his ship. One moment he’d been on the brink of death with his navigation damaged and his oxygen running low, and the next someone with yellow eyes and purple skin stroked back his hair and told him to be brave. He’d passed out minutes later. The next thing he knew he was hurtling back into Earth’s atmosphere. Things were hazy after that. Shiro’s still not entirely sure how his ship didn’t simply explode on re-entry without a geostationary orbit docking, and he has no idea how the hell the coordinates for the Garrison were reentered into his navigation system (or how it was fixed in the first place). 

All Shiro knows is that was the day he started believing again—in aliens, and in miracles.

 _He shouldn’t be alive_ , the doctors whispered when they didn’t know he was lucid enough to hear.

 _How is he not dead,_ they’d say when they thought he was asleep, as if perhaps he should have been.

 _He won’t ever be the same_ , they didn’t bother to whisper.

The hospital listed a lot of possibilities for how he had survived on his discharge papers. The Garrison even more. None of them added up though, because none of them were the truth.

The truth is aliens are real and one of them saved Shiro. 

After losing his arm and his dreams of going back to space again, he resigned himself to never being able to see aliens again either. He resigned himself to never sharing that truth with anyone else and risk being called crazy again, or the wrath of the Garrison and the heavy NDA he had to sign before his release. And now, now there’s one of them sitting on his couch petting his dog. Shiro isn’t alone anymore, not literally or in the broader philosophical sense. After spending two years resigning himself to being the only one to even know the truth of what happened to him, it’s a lot to handle.

Shiro closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose, trying to regain a semblance of emotional control. Things are…things are not fine. Shiro is confused and Keith is unfairly attractive, and suddenly the lack of sleep and stress of the last twenty hours hit him like a ton of bricks. 

“I think I enjoy your dog,” Keith unexpectedly says, devastating Shiro further.

“Yeah,” Shiro breathes, leaning back against the edge of his couch to stop from collapsing. “Me too. He’s a good boy.”

“Good boy,” Keith repeats, scratching behind Atlas’s ears. 

Atlas barks, tail wagging at the familiar phrase. 

“What are you doing here?” Shiro blurts. The second he says, it he feels guilty for the poor delivery of the question. “Sorry, sorry. That was rude. I was just—”

“Curious,” Keith finishes, still petting Atlas. His gaze is on Shiro now though and Shiro isn’t sure if that makes things better or worse.

Shiro nods.

“I was led to believe that humans have an archaic and egocentric view of life beyond Earth. But you are…different.” Keith pauses as Atlas moves, hopping off the couch to amble over to Shiro. “You are not afraid of me.”

“No,” Shiro agrees. “I’m not afraid. Should I be?”

It’s Keith’s turn to shake his head. “I will not hurt you.”

For some reason Shiro believes him. 

Atlas nudges his snout into Shiro’s hand and Shiro exhales the breath he’s holding, grateful for the familiar comfort. 

“I won’t hurt you either,” Shiro offers, feeling the need to assure him of the fact.

Keith makes a funny noise at that, resting his elbows on his knees as he leans forward and observes Shiro. “I have assessed your threat level. It is very low.”

“You…you what now?”

“I have assessed your threat level,” he repeats. It doesn’t make more sense the second time. “Your Earth weapons can not incapacitate me and you—”

“I don’t have any weapons,” Shiro interrupts.

“There are various tools under the sink in the kitchen and a long wooden apparatus in the upstairs sleeping quarters. These are insufficient to wound me beyond my body’s ability to heal.”

Shiro blinks. He found the tool chest under the kitchen sink and the baseball bat upstairs in Shiro’s closet. _Upstairs_. In Shiro’s room. Shiro’s room with it’s unmade bed and piles of laundry.

“Did you search my house?” he asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

“Of course. To assess the threat level,” Keith says again, as if anyone would do the same. “You were gone many dobosh.”

Shiro blows out a heavy puff of air. He’s not angry but he feels exposed. It’s an unsettling feeling after living alone for so long. 

“You are distressed. Do not worry. I am not afraid of you. You could not hurt a Dryknan.”

Shiro has no idea what the hell a Dryknan is or whether that’s an insult or a compliment. 

“Uh…thank you,” he says in lieu of having anything else to say. “I think.”

Keith nods. Apparently it was the correct response.

“I don’t know what things are like in space. Just…on Earth we don’t search people’s homes without asking,” Shiro tells him.

“Why?” Keith asks.

“It’s not polite,” Shiro answers, still able to recall the look in his grandma's eyes every time he'd been told off for snooping when he went with his grandparents to visit friends. _It’s not polite, Takashi,”_ she would say, firmly thought not unkindly. 

“I have offended you,” Keith says, throwing his legs over the couch. “I apologize. I will leave.”

“You—no,” Shiro yells, jumping up. “I don’t want you to leave. Just…I don’t want you searching through my stuff is all.”

“You do not wish me to depart?”

Shiro shakes his head. “No.”

“I may stay?” he asks. 

Shiro nods, the air punched from his lungs with something like a smile passes across Keith’s face. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Shiro shrugs. “I have lots of space and…let’s just say that not all humans believe in the existence of aliens and sometimes, well—people aren’t always kind about things they don’t understand. But out here you’re safe.”

“Safe,” Keith repeats. “I may stay until I repair my ship?” Keith asks, voice ripe with surprise almost as if he can’t believe the offer.

Shiro nods again. He has no idea how long that kind of repair might take, but he finds he doesn’t mind the prospect of the company. “Yes, as long as you need.”

“Thank you,” Keith declares, moving around Shiro and heading towards the kitchen.

“Wait, where are you going? I thought you were staying.”

“I must return to my ship. There is something I need.”

“Your ship,” Shiro echoes, suddenly remembering the abandoned backpack in the kitchen. “Hang on.”

Before Keith can leave, Shiro jogs into the kitchen, grabbing the backpack from the corner where he’d discarded earlier and returning to Keith. He holds it out, clearing his throat. “I went back while you were sleeping.” 

_I didn’t know you had some kind of alien healing magic_ , he thinks but doesn’t say out loud.

Keith is quiet as he takes the backpack, turning it in around circles several times before Shiro tugs on the zipper to help him open it. Keith peers inside, turning to the couch and shaking out the contents. He drops to his knees, picking up each item and inspecting them before spreading them out. When he turns his eyes back on Shiro, there’s obvious confusion.

“You acquired my belongings.”

“I wasn’t sure how long it might take you to heal and you…you looked distressed before. I figured whatever was on the ship that you needed must be important to you,” Shiro says, not wanting to confess just how desperately he’d needed to do something, or how afraid he’d been of Keith simply disappearing before Shiro got a chance to ask him anything.

“You are kind,” Keith says, hands running over the cover of his journal.

“It was nothing,” Shiro says with a shrug.

“What does nothing mean to humans?” Keith asks, surprising Shiro with the question.

“Uh..nothing. It means, well—that something doesn’t matter I guess. Or that it isn’t a big deal I guess.”

“Then this was not nothing,” Keith counters, clutching the notebook in his hands. “This is all I was able to bring with me. It is all I have from my home. This is…this is everything.”

“Oh, I—I’m glad. Humans sometimes we say that something was nothing even when don’t actually mean it.”

“You tell a falsehood?” Keith asks, pulling the journal to his chest.

“No,” Shiro answers automatically. “Or, well—kind of? It’s not a lie. Not really, just…sometimes humans downplay what things mean.”

“For what purpose?” Keith questions.

“A lot, I suppose,” Shiro exhales. “To minimize our own feelings, to avoid disappointment, to avoid…to avoid getting hurt.”

“I am afraid I do not understand,” Keith says, eyebrows knit together tightly.

“I don’t always either,” Shiro offers.

Keith nods solemnly. “I think I have underestimated the complexity of humans. You confuse me.”

The seriousness of the statement tugs a smile from Shiro. It’s stabilizing to realize he’s not the only one feeling a little wrong-footed. “For what it’s worth, you confuse me too.”

“Me?” Keith echoes, seemingly surprised by the statement.

“Yeah you.”

“Why?” he queries, as if genuinely doesn’t know.

“You just crash landed on my farm in a massive ship that came _from outer space_ ,” Shiro gapes. Now that the words are out he can feel the rest of his messy, confusing thoughts ready to come tumbling out as well. His brain feels like a hamster stuck on a wheel going round and round, and he barely even knows where to start. “And you’re not just an alien. Oh no. You’re an alien who is also half-human which creates so many new questions I don’t even know where to begin.” He pauses, hand on his hip as he begins to pace. “Then, to top it off, you were unconscious and suffering from some major and painful injuries and I…I was afraid. I patched you up the best I could but I was still worried but you kept sleeping and sleeping and sleeping, and I didn’t know what to do. I felt helpless. Then I got back home and you weren’t on the couch and I panicked and thought you were gone but turns out you were fine and just…shit, I don’t even know, magically healed yourself?”

“It is not magic,” Keith offers quietly. “Galra biology allows for a deep and extended sleep cycle to heal non-life-threatening injuries. It’s a type of sleep stasis where our cells regenerate at a higher than normal rate to allow for maximum healing.”

“Oh,” Shiro exhales slowly, scrubbing his hand across his jaw. It still sounds a hell of a lot like magic to him.

“Is there anything else?” Keith asks. “Anything you would like to know.”

“Everything,” Shiro whispers, the air going out of his lungs as he collapses on the edge of the couch.

Shiro’s not entirely sure what he’s expecting. A rebuttal perhaps or a wall of secrecy. He’s used to his curiosity and questions being shut down. He feels exposed, and it’s terrifying to finally admit how desperately he wants to know these things. He thought he was okay, that he could live the rest of his life never having the answers to the questions that burned a hole in his heart when he closed eyes, but he’s not.

He wants to know.

He needs to know.

If Keith refuses, if he doesn’t want to share his knowledge, then Shiro isn’t sure what he’ll do. He’s not sure he can go back to his quiet life and pretend the mysteries of the cosmos don’t keep him up at night.

Keith doesn’t say no. In fact, he says the exact opposite, and Shiro is sure his life will never be the same again.

“It is lucky then that I am staying here until I fix my ship. Perhaps I will have time to tell you everything.”

* * *

Shiro wakes slowly, the last dregs of exhaustion still trying to drag him back to sleep. He doesn’t even need to open his eyes to know it’s too bright to still be nighttime, but he squints open one eye to check, then immediately slams it shut when the sun filtering in through the crack in the curtains hits him. Yeah, it’s definitely morning.

Keeping his eyes shut, he rolls off his side and arches his back as he stretches out his arm and legs. The familiar crack in his spine sounds, but there’s still an unusual ache in his lower back. Shiro’s no stranger to muscle stiffness and aches with the amount of physical labor he does. But this feels different, this feels—this feels like he fell.

Shiro throws himself upright so fast he wakes Atlas who lets out an unhappy yap, clearly disgruntled at being woken. He rises up onto all fours glancing around to see what’s wrong, unused to being woken up like that.

The crashed spaceship. Falling off the side of it. Carrying an alien across all five acres. Not an alien— _Keith._

Keith.

Keith, who is currently asleep in the guest room downstairs.

“I’m alright, Atlas,” Shiro whispers as Atlas licks Shiro’s bare shoulder. 

Atlas doesn’t seem convinced, repeating the gesture and padding his paws in Shiro’s lap until Shiro starts to pet him.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Shiro murmurs, unsure which one of them he’s trying to soothe.

The events of the previous thirty-six hours flood Shiro and he’s very glad he’s alone right now, because he’s not sure he could school his features into anything resembling unaffected or polite if he tried. The fact that there is a man from outer space residing as Shiro’s houseguest is the craziest thing that’s ever happened to him. An alien houseguest definitely tops his last encounter with extraterrestrial life. 

Of all the places Keith could have crash landed it was on Shiro’s farm. It’s too crazy to be just chance. Growing up, Shiro was never particularly spiritual, and any semblance of faith he’d had disappeared the day his grandparents were taken from him in a car crash a week before his admittance to the Garrison. But this feels like something more than a coincidence, it feels like something special.

It feels a lot like fate.

Atlas whines as he crawls into Shiro’s lap, and it’s not until Shiro’s got him pulled against his chest with his face buried in Atlas’s soft fur that Atlas seems to relax. It’s not surprising Atlas can sense his own unease—he’s been with Shiro for so long now. Atlas was there for the highest days of Shiro’s life and the lowest.

“We’re okay, Atlas. We’re okay,” Shiro repeats, deciding it’s definitely both of them that need reminding.

It takes several minutes for Shiro’s heart to stop racing and the sleepiness in his limbs to leave. When it does, he hops out of bed and gets dressed—putting on the same clothes as the day before, since he still hasn’t done his laundry—and heading downstairs. He moves slowly, extra cognizant of the way the third step creaks and of Atlas’s paws bounding noisily across the hardwood floor. Shiro has no idea if Keith is still asleep, but a quick glance at the door off the kitchen shows it’s shut.

“Right,” Shiro mutters, turning in circles. Normally he would start making coffee and eating something, but normally there isn’t someone sleeping in the spare room.

The bed in there is leftover from the time Atlas broke his front leg a few weeks after they’d moved into the farm. The stairs had been too much for him to handle to make it to Shiro’s room each night and the idea of Atlas sleeping downstairs alone had filled Shiro with sadness. So Shiro had done what any other sane person whose dog doesn’t like to sleep alone would do and ordered a bed in a box and a spare set of sheets and slept downstairs for a few weeks. It’s nothing fancy, just a mattress on the floor, but the bed is comfortable, it’s got clean sheets, and it’s in its own room so Keith can have some privacy. Shiro just hopes he slept well.

As much as he wants Keith here he can’t deny how out of sorts he feels. The closest he’s come to company on the farm is the time he invited the vet in for a cup of coffee after she treated Kaltenecker a few months ago. He’s never had anyone come to visit _him_ here and he sure as hell has never had anyone come to _stay_. 

It’s not unwelcome but it’s different. Shiro’s not used to different.

Of course, not everything is different. When Shiro looks down it’s to see Atlas pushing his empty food bowl across the kitchen floor towards Shiro.

“Sorry, buddy,” Shiro laughs, scooping up the empty bowl and heading onto the back porch. He fills it with dog food then returns, setting it down on the floor beside Atlas’s water bowl which also needs filling. Once Atlas is happily having his breakfast Shiro moves back to the corner of the kitchen and flips on the coffee pot.

Monday mornings always call for coffee—a lot of coffee. There’s all the laundry Shiro didn’t get done over the weekend to do, the animals to feed, and he needs to check on his strawberry plants which haven’t been harvested since last week. It’s also the day he usually makes an extra big dinner so he can have leftovers later when he’s too tired to cook. It’s one of his busiest days, and Shiro welcomes the prospect of something to keep his mind and body occupied.

It’s not until Shiro is pulling the lid off his canister of coffee that he pauses. Does Keith like coffee? Do aliens have anything close to coffee? Do aliens eat breakfast? It’s another round of questions that Shiro has no answer to. In the end, Shiro goes ahead and makes twice as much coffee as he normally would. If Keith hates it Shiro can just drink extra—it’s not like he slept last night. Not well, anyway. He’d spent most of the night tossing and turning until he’d finally passed out some time after midnight.

Slowly the carafe fills up, and the kitchen is flooded with the scent of freshly brewed coffee as Shiro opens the kitchen window to let in some fresh air before it gets too hot to have the windows open. As the coffee finishes brewing, Shiro empties the dishwasher, putting away the clean dishes and occasionally peeking out the window. It’s normal, painfully normal, and Shiro’s chest does a strange flip flop when he catches sight of the completely full pot of coffee. That part is not normal. Usually Shiro only makes half a pot for himself. On a day where he couldn’t sleep, maybe three quarters of a pot, but never once has he made a full one.

Once the coffee has finished brewing he flips the warmer on, unsure how long it might be until Keith wakes up. He entertains the idea of waiting to have his own coffee—it seems like the polite thing to do—but the lack of sleep and his body’s addiction to caffeine means he barely makes it five minutes before he’s taking down the biggest mug from the cupboard and filling it. He adds two generous spoons of sugar and an equally generous amount of his favorite vanilla creamer.

The first sip is heaven and for a few blissful moments all of Shiro’s tumultuous thoughts grind to a standstill. There are no problems to navigate or potentially changed futures to envision. There’s just his coffee—strong and sweet just the way he likes it—and the birds outside the window chirping up a storm. The sense of contentment is broken before Shiro even gets to drink half his coffee when his stomach gives an audible growl. He has no idea if Keith is a _eat as soon as he wakes up_ kind of guy but Shiro sure is. If Shiro doesn’t get some food in him soon, the coffee might eat a hole in his stomach.

Shiro is tempted to make pancakes again since Keith was so fond of them before, but he’s already low on flour, and there’s a mountain of eggs in the corner that need to get eaten, so he decides on that instead. It’s been years since Shiro shared breakfast with anyone else, so he really isn’t sure what kind of etiquette there is for making food and eating while someone who just came from another solar system is there to stay with you. 

He goes back and forth for several minutes about cooking now or waiting, but in the end decides to start cooking. If Keith’s voracious appetite the day before is any indication, there’s a good chance he'll be hungry and an equally good chance he won’t be too fussy about what Shiro makes so long as there’s food. Normally Shiro would just crack an egg or two in the pan with butter to fry it and call it a day—he doesn’t mind simple food and it doesn’t always feel worth the trouble making something elaborate just for him. This morning he feels a little more ambitious—in no small part because of the memory of Keith’s sigh of pleasure as he’d eaten Shiro’s food the night before. It feels a little silly, but Shiro hasn’t been able to shake the pleasure he’d felt at seeing Keith so voraciously eat the foods he’d harvested and cooked. It was nice,—more than nice, really—and Shiro is honest enough with himself to admit that he’s curious to find out what else Keith enjoys eating. 

Omelets, he decides. Shiro is going to make omelets. 

The only problem with this idea is Shiro’s fridge is getting pretty bare. Normally he’d favor a chive and goat cheese omelet, or maybe a southwestern one with salsa and black beans. He doesn’t have the ingredients for either. He’s in desperate need of a trip into town to restock the basics he can’t or doesn’t like to make himself—a trip which he’s been putting off for weeks because he loathes going into town. He’ll make it another another week or so at most with what he’s still got in the cupboards, but any longer and he’ll be completely out of butter and flour. Even worse, he will be out of coffee creamer—a prospect worse than death. 

He could do a quick harvest from the garden for a nice veggie omelet but the truth is, as silly as it might be, he doesn’t want to risk heading outside just yet—doesn’t want to risk leaving Keith alone. So instead he rummages around his fridge long enough to find half a zucchini, three loose mushrooms, and some fresh garlic bulbs.

As the garlic simmers in a generous amount of butter, Shiro gets to work on the vegetables. He locks the knife into the pivot mechanism in the corner and gets to work dicing up the vegetables into little cubes. By the time the garlic has turned to a golden brown ,everything else is ready and he dumps in the veggies. He moves around the kitchen as they sauté, humming to himself as he takes down the plates and gets forks from the drawer. 

Shiro falls into a routine as he works, tension leaving his shoulders as he whisks the eggs with salt and pepper and a splash of cashew milk. It’s soothing to watch them fill the pan, the edges bubbling in butter—Shiro really likes butter—and the room fills with the scent of good food. It reminds Shiro of his childhood, of the way Baba’s kitchen always had something cooking. It’s soothing, and time passes quickly as he cooks the eggs. Before Shiro knows it, he’s got two perfectly folded omelets on plates, along with a stack of toast and his favorite homemade raspberry rhubarb jam. He even puts the sugar and creamer on the table, just in case. He’s halfway through filling up his own mug of coffee for the second time when he hears the creak of a door and footsteps on the hardwood floor.

Atlas jumps up, ears high as he watches the archway and waits.

Shiro is proud of himself for not spilling coffee on himself as he continues to pour, doing his best to pretend his heart isn’t thudding in his ears as he watches Keith enter the kitchen.

Keith is still wearing Shiro’s pajama pants but they’re sitting so low on his hips this morning that Shiro is pretty sure the only thing keeping them up is Keith’s substantially sized alien dick—the dick with the knot at the base. The thought makes Shiro walk into the edge of the table—the hard wood corner jabbing Shiro painfully in the hip. He bites back a groan, unwilling to draw any more attention to the fact that he’s apparently lost control of his own body. Keith stretches his arms over his head and sucks in a deep breath—the pajama bottoms slipping even lower. Shiro gets a small glimpse of dark purple curls before he drags his eyes upward. It’s not much help though, because Keith’s face is no less distracting than his lower half. There are visible pillow lines on his cheek and his hair is an absolute disaster—sticking up in every direction not unlike a hedgehog. Somehow on Keith it’s cute.

Desperate to do anything beside stare at Keith with his mouth open, Shiro takes a massive gulp of his coffee, then nearly cries when he realizes he hasn’t put the cream and sugar in. Shiro _hates_ black coffee and only an intense and deep-seeded refusal to embarrass himself further prevents Shiro from spitting the bitter liquid out on the floor.

“Morning,” Shiro croaks, embarrassed at the way his voice cracks. 

It’s clearly been too long since he’s had company, or seen another man naked. Not that Keith isn’t pretty enough to warrant Shiro’s current reaction. Keith is pretty, very pretty—he’s unfairly attractive, if Shiro is being completely honest with himself. Shiro never really gave much thought to whether he has a type. He’d grown up more interested in astrophysics and flight dynamics than dating or sex. He had Atlas and his dream job, and if he sometimes longs for something along the lines of physical and emotional intimacy with another, he’d figured he had a lot of time for those things later once he lived his dream. Then his piloting career ended too soon and he had more than enough free time to figure out what he wanted in a partner, but he hadn’t been in the right headspace. Turns out dealing with PTSD from a crash and gaslighting about his experiences and the existence of aliens from the space company he’d dedicated his life to, along with his own intense body image issues, has made losing his virginity impossible. 

He’d been too full of insecurity about the scars that littered his body and his missing arm to let anyone get close to him, convinced no one else would want him. It took a lot of therapy and an equally large amount of purposeful and positive self talk before Shiro appreciated the resiliency and strength in his body, and was able to love himself enough to know he could love someone else. And by then it was too late. Or at least it felt like it. By the time Shiro felt capable of being intimate with another man, he was living out in the middle of nowhere but nothing but a ragtag group of rescue animals and his dog for company. Over the last year Shiro resigned himself to getting off alone—something he’s got really good at doing with his non-dominant hand. Then Keith showed up and now that Shiro’s brain isn’t stuck in a haze of fight-or-flight mode, his dick has apparently taken over.

Looking at Keith standing there half-dressed and sleeping with miles of pale skin and pretty purple stripes on display makes Shiro feel sixteen again. Or maybe worse, because at sixteen Shiro had more of a hard-on for space than he had for seeing another boy's dick. The sight of Keith is making Shiro crazy—he can barely think about anything but what lies beneath Keith’s pajamas. 

Shiro’s heart is in his throat and his dick has definitely taken notice of Keith too. It’s absolutely insane—he doesn’t even know Keith, and he’s not at all used to feeling so hot under the skin just from the sight of a pretty face. Then again, he’s never seen anyone as pretty in Keith in his entire life.

Keith cracks open his eyes and immediately squints at the brightness. Through lidded eyes his gaze lands on Shiro and he lets out a low, guttural sound not unlike a growl as he shuffles forward.

“I hope you slept well,” Shiro says, setting his coffee down on the table and adding the cream and sugar.

There’s no response from Keith, aside from another unintelligible grunt as he crosses the room and drops down into the chair opposite Shiro. Right. Keith is clearly not a morning person.

“Uh, do you want some coffee?” he tries.

Keith drops his face down onto the table, barely missing the plate of toast as a soft growl rumbles out of his chest. 

Shiro takes it as a yes.

“I’m not sure if you have anything close to coffee in space but it’s a pretty big beverage on Earth,” Shiro says as he gets another mug down from the pantry and fills it. He carries it back to the table, depositing it next to Keith’s head. “I think most people either love or hate it. I like it with cream and sugar myself. Some people like it black but I gotta be honest I’ve never been able to—” but his words die on his tongue as he watches Keith fling a hand out to grab the cup. He still looks bleary eyed, nose wrinkled, and eyes half-shut as he brings the coffee to his lips.

“Careful it’s a little…hot,” Shiro finishes, unable to mask his gaping surprise as Keith proceeds to down the entire mug of coffee—without sugar or creamer—in one go as easily as if it were a glass of water. Shiro isn’t sure if he’s impressed or horrified.

Once he’s finished he squints at the table, eyeing the plates of omelets and toast with unmistakable interest but he doesn’t reach for anything.

“I made plenty for you,” Shiro tells him, pushing the plate under Keith’s face. 

Before Shiro can mention the toast and jam, Keith’s grabbing the omelet with his hands the same way he did the pancakes and chomping into it, completely ignoring the fork. Shiro has no idea if Galra simply don’t use silverware or if Keith’s just too hungry to bother with it. Either way, he makes quick work of Shiro’s perfectly folded omelet—bits of zucchini and mushroom falling onto the plate as Keith inhales it like he hasn’t eaten in a week. When it’s gone, Keith’s lips turn down in something that looks close to a pout. 

His stomach grumbles quietly as he looks down at his own omelet—piping hot and ready to be eaten. Then he looks up at Keith picking up the bits of veggies off his plate and eating them, and he knows exactly what he’s going to do—resigning himself to eating one of the protein bars he keeps stashed in the pantry for days he’s too tired to cook. It won’t be an omelet, but it’ll be enough to get him through to the next meal. 

Ignoring his own hunger, Shiro removes Keith’s empty plate and switches it with his own full one. A flicker of surprise passes across Keith’s face as his eyes dart from the plate of food up to Shiro and then back down to the food again. When he looks up the next time, Shiro smiles encouragingly at him, pushing the toast towards him too.

“It’s really good with the jam,” he says, scooping up a spoonful of jam and spreading a thick layer on a piece of toast with the back of the spoon before holding it out to Keith.

A low sound rumbles out of Keith’s chest, something that sounds very much like a _purr_ as he accepts the toast, sniffing it once before taking a bite. Shiro’s fingers tighten on the handle of his mug as he watches Keith chew, waiting to see what he thinks. The smile that spreads across Keith’s face when he swallows makes Shiro's chest go warm. It’s a sight Shiro knows will be burned into his memory for all of time—long after Keith eventually makes his inevitable departure.

“Do you want more?” Shiro asks, pushing the mason jar of jam across the table closer to Keith.

Keith nods, using the spoon to scoop up a massive glob. Except instead of whacking it onto another piece of toast, he globs it onto the middle of the omelet, covering it in sticky sweet jam. Then, to make it even worse, he eats it.

There’s no question this time, Shiro is definitely horrified.

Keith on the other hand looks immensely pleased and adds a second and third spoonful of jam to his omelet until the egg and vegetables are barely visible beneath globs of raspberries and jam. 

“You can, uh….use it all if you want,” Shiro offers, watching the way Keith’s eyes keep drifting to the last bit of jam in the jar. 

Keith doesn’t hesitate to tip the jar over his plate, scraping out every last bit of jam with the spoon and then using the same spoon to scoop up thick globs of jam along with zucchini and mushroom omelet. Shiro’s heart speeds up at the sight of the bright red jam staining Keith’s lips, and it’s all he can do not to let his mouth fall open. He averts his gaze, if only because he hates people staring at him when he eats, and the last thing he wants to do is make Keith uncomfortable.

Keith takes another bite, causing a particularly large bit of jam with a big raspberry to fall onto his finger. Without an ounce of self-consciousness he pops the jam-covered finger into his mouth and sucks. Shiro nearly asphyxiates. He thinks he understands what the boys in the locker room used to joke about because he feels like his dick is in control of his body. It’s only a lifetime of practice in the art of patience and meditation that allows Shiro to remain calm in the face of Keith sucking his fingers—and avoid a raging hard on at breakfast. 

Shiro feels strung tight as a bow. He’s hungry, aroused and, frankly, more than a little confused. It’s a hell of a lot to feel before eight o-clock on a Monday morning, and Shiro definitely needs a third cup of coffee if he wants to have any chance of surviving the day ahead.

Desperate to fill his veins with more liquid courage—and have something to keep his hand occupied—he moves to the coffee pot and sets about refilling both of their mugs. Once again Keith drinks his plain in half a second, finishing his entire mug before Shiro has finished pouring creamer in his own. Shiro’s not sure which thing he finds more revolting—the black coffee or the vegetable omelet covered in jam. Probably the coffee if he’s honest which is probably saying something about Shiro’s addiction to his favorite creamer.

Slowly but surely Keith makes his way through the rest of the plate of toast, covering them in the butter Shiro supplies now that the jam is gone. It’s not until every last bit of food is gone and Keith’s drained a third mug of black coffee that he seems to come out his haze of sleep.

Keith lifts his gaze up to meet Shiro’s, brushing the hair from his eyes. 

“Good morning. Well, uh…again,” Shiro mumbles as Keith locks his gaze without blinking. “I said that before but, uh, yeah. You weren’t exactly up for conversation. You know, before.”

“I am not a person of the morning,” Keith volunteers. Shiro’s not sure if its the harsh morning light that comes into the kitchen this time of day or if Keith might actually be blushing. “I apologize.”

“You’re okay. Good, even,” Shiro insists, clearing his throat and taking an unwisely large gulp of coffee. Unlike Keith, Shiro does actually have heat receptors in his mouth and they are not happy at his stupidity.

Keith looks skeptical.

Terrified of what else he might unwittingly say if things continue in the same vein, Shiro seeks a diversion so he can get his ridiculous brain back under control without making an even bigger fool of himself.

“I can clean up the dishes if you wanted to take a shower.”

“Does my smell displease you?” he asks, causing Shiro to jolt.

“Your—no. Shit, I didn’t mean it like that. Your smell is fine. Not that I can smell you, or not smell you. You’re just…you’re fine. I thought, you know, after the accident and everything you might want one.” Keith’s still staring at him intensely and Shiro inhales a deep breath before finishing weakly. “Showers feel nice. I like showers and I’m going to stop talking now.”

“If it will please you, then I will shower,” Keith declares, pushing away from the table and standing up. “As a thank you for the delicious nourishment.”

Shiro exhales the breath he’s been holding in relief, but the relief is short-lived as Keith hooks his thumbs into his pajama pants and begins to push them down. Shiro gets a single glimpse of the sharp jut of Keith’s hipbone and even more dark hair, and jumps up so fast he knocks his mug over, the last few sips of coffee staining the tablecloth brown. 

“You can get undressed in the bathroom. Down the hallway. It’s down the hallway,” Shiro manages to get out, praying he doesn’t do anything else stupid. 

It’s absolutely inconceivable to him how he was once able to pilot a solo mission out of the damn galaxy but he can’t act like a normal human being in front of Keith. Maybe living alone so long has ruined his ability to socialize, or maybe Keith’s just that disarming. There are much bigger things for Shiro to be thinking about right now, like why Keith is here, or what he might know about whoever saved him. Instead of thinking about that though, he’s thinking about how pretty Keith is. Shiro is ridiculous. He’s not sure if he wants to jerk off or run out into the vegetable garden and scream. Probably both, if he’s being honest.

“Hallway,” Keith echoes, pulling his pajamas back up.

Shiro nods. “There are clean towels on the shelf and, uh—do you need me to come show you?”

Keith shakes his head from side to side. “We also have cleansing rooms in Daibazaal. I can manage.”

“Of course,” Shiro breathes, feeling inexplicably wrong-footed again. Keith feels so human and so alien all at once that finding his parameters seems insurmountable.

It’s not until Keith has gone that his earlier words fully hit Shiro— _delicious nourishment._ Keith liked his food. 

Warmth floods his cheeks, pleasure pushing away his lingering embarrassment. He’d assumed as much from the purr-like sound and the way he’d devoured every bit of food, but he’d also clearly been starving. It was possible he was eating Shiro’s food because it was all there was and not because he really liked it.

The idea that Keith likes his cooking—really likes it—makes Shiro inexplicably pleased. It definitely makes giving up his own breakfast and settling for a protein bar more than worth it. Shiro remains frozen to the spot in the middle of the kitchen, at least until he hears the shower upstairs turn on. 

He listens to the sound of the water running for a few seconds shaking himself from his stupor and setting about cleaning up the kitchen. He makes quick work of clearing the table— rinsing the dishes and pans before loading them into the dishwasher. Once that’s done, he removes the soiled tablecloth and chucks it into the ever-growing pile of laundry in the laundry room that Shiro definitely needs to handle later, before returning to the kitchen to wipe down the counters. It’s not until the kitchen is spotless that he relaxes and finally heads to the pantry in search of his protein bar. He rummages through the basket of bars, hunger making him indecisive. He ultimately settles on one with some sort of white coating and pecans. The first bite reminds Shiro of the nutrition bars his grandma used to pack in his lunch when he was a kid, back when she’d been afraid he’d never have a growth spurt and be tiny the rest of his life. It’s not exactly good, but it’s not bad, and Shiro is halfway through taking another bite when he hears feet on the hardwood floor.

He spins around without a second thought, protein bar dangling from his lips as he takes in the sight before him.

Naked. Keith is naked.

Not only is he naked, he is naked and _wet_. 

Keith is naked and wet in the middle of Shiro’s kitchen, water pooling at his feet on Shiro’s clean kitchen floor. He should say something. He should definitely say something. Except Shiro’s forgotten how to make words.

“Your shower is broken,” Keith says, the words barely registering in Shiro’s brain. Logically he knows Keith has said something that requires some response on his end, but the synapses in Shiro’s brain are misfiring at the sight of Keith naked. Naked and wet. In _his_ kitchen.

Shiro drags his eyes from Keith’s bare feet to his strong calves, then up further past the scars on his knees to the thick purple stripes that crisscross his thighs and dark hair dusting them. There’s water there too—clinging to the dark hair and dripping down his long legs. Shiro’s eyes continue to drift up and, yeah, there’s water on his dick too. Shiro nearly bites off his own tongue at the sight of that. There’s water everywhere—on his slim hips and the hollow of his delicate collar bones, and cascading down his strong arms. Keith’s not just pretty. He’s the most attractive person Shiro has ever laid eyes on.

The protein bar falls from Shiro’s mouth straight to the floor with a thud.

“Huh?” he grunts, in what is possibly the most unintelligible response in history. 

“It does not respond to voice command,” Keith says, moving his hands to his hips without an ounce of modesty. “I wish to be cleansed.”

_Voice command. Voice command._

It takes Shiro's brain a few seconds to make the jump from pretty naked alien boy to what Keith is saying, but eventually his brain gets there.

“We don’t have voice command showers on Earth. Or well, I dunno maybe billionaires do, but old farmhouses don’t have them.”

“Then how am I to be cleansed?” Keith asks, appearing truly perplexed.

“You use your hands.” Keith blinks and Shiro clearly loses his mind as he begins to rub his hand over his chest and tummy. “You know, wash wash.”

Shiro wonders if aliens have the ability to create wormholes, because if so he very much wants one to open up in his kitchen and put him out of his misery. _Wash, wash._ Keith’s an alien not a toddler.

“That is primitive,” Keith says, shrugging. Then, without waiting for another response he turns on his heels and marches back to the stairs leaving Shiro to do nothing but stare at the little dimples above his ass and the slim purple markings that crisscross his back.

Shiro looks down at the remnants of his protein bar and sighs. Now he’s hungry and horny, and he definitely has the strong urge to run out into his vegetable patch and scream. 

The only saving grace in the entire thing is that Atlas is still napping on the floor beneath the window and wasn't there to bear witness to Shiro’s embarrassment. Not that he really would’ve known what a disaster Shiro was being but it feels better that no one else besides Keith was there to witness.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Shiro’s mopped up the puddles on the floor and has inhaled a hard boiled egg and a handful of raw almonds. It isn’t as close to a meal as Shiro would like, but it's enough protein that he no longer feels like his stomach might eat itself. His blood sugar feels like it's leveling off, and he was able to calm his erratic heart beat down to a more normal level. 

All things considered, he’s not feeling too bad. He even manages to convince himself that there’s a small chance he wasn’t a complete embarrassment.

Then Keith comes ambling down the stairs and into the kitchen and everything falls to shit.

Keith is naked again. Or almost naked, anyway. He’s wearing one thing but it’s not clothes—it's _his knife_ —the same one Shiro retrieved from the spaceship the day before. The knife is hanging low on Keith’s waist, snug against his left hip and tied up with what looks suspiciously like the drawstring from Shiro’s pajama pants. He strides into the kitchen without preamble and yeah, Shiro definitely recognizes the knotted ends and the navy blue cotton of the string holding up the knife from the pajama pants he lent Keith. Though he has no idea what happened to the rest of them. 

Shiro’s fully aware his mouth is hanging open but he can’t seem to close it. He can’t do anything but stare. He thought the wildest thing that ever happened to him was Keith crashing on the farm, but somehow this feels even more shocking.

“So, uh, where’s the rest of the pajamas?” Shiro asks when his brain starts working again.

Keith pauses, now standing very close to Shiro. “I required the cord. Unfortunately the pants did not survive the extraction, but it is not a problem. I am not cold.”

Shiro nearly chokes on his own tongue. “Do Galra only wear clothes because of the cold?” 

“It is one reason. We also wear them for protection during battle, and ceremonial reasons. For what purpose do humans wear them?”

“Oh, uh, mostly the same. But also to you know—” he waves his hand in the general direction of his dick.

“I do not know.”

Shiro sighs. Apparently he’s going to have to actually say it out loud. “Usually we keep our genitals covered. You know, for, uh…modesty.”

Keith looks down at his nude body then back at up Shiro. “That must make cleansing and procreating very difficult.”

“We don’t wear clothes during those things,” Shiro objects, warmth spreading across his cheeks at the mere suggestion. “Just…we don’t get naked in front of other people you know? Or at least not strangers. Then again, some people do, for personal or professional reasons which is…that’s fine. More power to them, even if it's not something I could do. But like, most humans don’t. So I guess not all humans think nudity is a problem, but just like in general as a society we don’t walk around with our dicks out. Or you know, whatever you’ve got down there. Usually we’re only naked in front of people we care about. Or maybe people you want to have sex with or…well nudist colonies are a thing I guess and…oh my god, I’m not making this any less confusing am I?”

Keith shakes his head. 

“Sorry. It’s just…not every day you have a house guest from outer space,” Shiro mumbles, sure he must look as red as he feels. 

“My nakedness is elevating your heart rate,” Keith says. “I apologize.”

“My what now?” Shiro chokes out, wondering if he's hallucinating.

“Your heart rate has picked up fifteen beats per dobosh. I do not know the human base rate, but the jump was quite rapid when I arrived. I apologize for causing you distress. I was not aware of the importance of clothing for human health.”

Shiro rests his hand on the back of the kitchen chair for support, head swimming. “How the hell do you know my heart rate changed?”

Keith reaches up, brushing the hair away from his left ear to better show off the pointed tip again and taps it. “Galra have excellent hearing. I can hear your heart beat, among other things.”

“Cool, cool,” Shiro chokes, nails digging into the wooden chair.

It is anything but cool. Shiro is absolutely mortified. He wants the Earth to swallow him whole and put him out of his misery. He’s never been so embarrassed in his entire life, and that’s saying something considering his fifth grade applesauce incident and the senior year prank of which he never speaks or thinks about.

“I must check on my ship. Perhaps when I am gone your heart will reset to normal.”

Shiro bites the inside of his cheek. He’s never going to live this down. Ever. He needs to get some clothes on Keith fast or he’s going to do something so embarrassing there will be no recovering. There’s no chance he’s going to be able to go about his daily chores knowing Keith is just out there in the field somewhere _naked_.

“Keith, wait. You, uh…you can’t go out there without clothes.”

Keith hesitates by the back door, turning wide eyes on Shiro. “Why not?”

 _Because your nakedness is making me feel like a horny teenager_ is way too honest and equally inappropriate to say out loud.

“The sun is hot this time of year. You, uh…you might get a sunburn.” 

“A sunburn?” Keith echoes.

“Yeah, sunburn,” Shiro agrees. It’s not a total lie. Shiro’s skin is fair enough that he burns if he’s out too long uncovered—not that he ever learns his lesson about it—so Keith might too. “Just…stay here and I’ll find you something.”

“Alright,” Keith agrees with a shrug, leaning back against the shut door.

With that Shiro departs before he has the chance to say anything else stupid or embarrassing, exiting the kitchen and taking the stairs two at a time. 

The second he steps into his bedroom the unwashed laundry taunts him from the corner and he vows to never, ever put laundry off again. If there’s nothing clean for Shiro to wear then there sure as hell isn’t anything that might fit Keith. Shiro groans loudly, causing Atlas to jump in his sleep on the bed so he bites back the urge to scream and scrubs his hand across his face instead. For a horrible few minutes, Shiro is sure there’s no option but to let Keith march around the farm in his birthday suit until it hits him.

Like a man possessed, Shiro sprints to his closet, pulling down extra blankets and pillows and his winter coats that are vacuumed sealed to take up less space until he finds what he’s looking for—an online order from last year. Unable to sleep, Shiro’d been up at two a.m. and on a whim ordered some new lounge wear. Unfortunately, it turns out that shopping in the middle of the night when you can barely keep your eyes open is unwise because instead of his own size, he’d somehow accidentally ordered everything in a size small—something he’d learned the hard way when the clothes wouldn’t fit over the bulk of his thighs or chest. He’d shoved them in the back of his closet, swearing to take them to the post office to ship back later for a return, and then promptly forgot about them, because the only thing Shiro hates more than going into town is dealing with returns. He’d been meaning to donate them for months but kept forgetting to bring them into town, and now his procrastination and avoidance is paying off in the form of two outfits that look to be just Keith’s size.

Clutching the package to his chest, Shiro sprints back downstairs, half afraid Keith might’ve left and half afraid he’ll still be naked. 

“Sorry I took so long I—what are you doing?” Shiro asks, coming to a standstill under the kitchen arch to the sight of Keith with his blade unsheathed swinging it around in the air. His eyes are a little yellow and as he lets out a low growl Shiro notices his teeth have sharpened into canines.

“There is an intruder.”

Panic swells up in Shiro as the plot of every bad sci-fi movie he’s ever watched flashes through his mind. It occurs to him now that before offering Keith a spare room, he maybe should’ve asked if he was some sort of space pirate or smuggler. For all Shiro knows, Keith could’ve stolen a secret weapon and there’s now an entire galactic empire on the way to his farm to blast them both to smithereens and—

“There it is again!” Keith yells, interrupting Shiro’s thoughts as he jabs his knife through the air.

Shiro blinks, awareness dawning as he hears the all too familiar buzz of his least favorite flying insect.

“It’s not an intruder," Shiro says, desperately trying not to laugh. "It's a mosquito.”

“Your mosquito just attempted to extract my DNA. For that, it must die.”

“You got a bug bite and now you’re trying to fight it. With a _knife_.” It doesn’t sound any less incredulous when he says it himself, or any less funny.

“Yes,” Keith deadpans.

“You can’t kill a mosquito with a knife,” Shiro objects, setting the clothes on the kitchen table—Keith’s nakedness momentarily forgotten in the face of a common enemy.

“I have downed many enemies with this blade. I assure you, I can kill anything with this.”

“No, you can’t,” Shiro says, grabbing the fly swatter off the nail in the corner.

Keith spares him a glance, not bothering to mask his opinions of Shiro’s bright pink piece of plastic. “You will not defeat such a small but nasty enemy with something like that.”

“Wanna bet?” Shiro laughs. 

Keith straightens his body, attention moving from the mosquito flying around the room to Shiro. “What is your wager?”

Oh. 

Shiro blinks in surprise. He’d meant it as more of a rhetorical question but now that he’s got this kind of opportunity, it seems too good to resist.

“If I kill it first you have to wear the clothes?”

“And if I lay waste to the Terran mosquito first?” Keith queries.

“What do you want?” Shiro asks, without thinking.

“You will answer a question of my choosing.”

“What question?” Shiro asks, at least a million scenarios for what Keith might ask filtering through his brain, each one more revealing than the last.

Keith grins. “I will tell you when I win.”

It’s the confidence that does it. There’s something painfully attractive about the smirk on Keith’s face, and Shiro is hard-pressed to deny the thrill of knowing without a shred of doubt that Shiro will wipe that smirk away when he wins. It's a prospect that has him agreeing to the terms of the bet despite his apprehensions.

“You’re on.”

Keith laughs—loud and clear—unmistakably sure he will beat Shiro. The laughter dies when Shiro nails the mosquito to the cupboard less than five seconds later.

“How did you do that?” Keith gapes, sheathing his sword.

“I’m just that talented,” Shiro laughs, unable to believe that two years of living alone resulted in expert mosquito whacking abilities that impressed an alien. Life was weird sometimes.

“I see that,” Keith agrees, completely serious. There’s something in his eyes that Shiro can’t read, but it sends warmth pooling in Shiro’s belly. He’s never had someone look at him quite like Keith is.

Shiro clears his throat then straightens his shoulders, refusing to blush again. He’s done enough of that for one day.

“So, uh…what were you going to ask me?” Shiro asks, unable to avert his gaze as Keith moves to the table and begins to pull on the tank top without bothering to examine what lay beneath. It’s a plain black Under Armour one Shiro had picked because the arm holes were so wide, but unfortunately even with Shiro’s propensity to enjoy his clothing a little snug, the tank top wouldn’t even fit over his head. It fits Keith though—the collar fitting close against his neck, but cut in on the sides to expose the sharp angle of his shoulders and muscled arms. There’s even a good view of dark armpit hair when he reaches out to dig through the pile of clothing until he finds a pair of pants. He picks the black joggers with the stripes on the side. Shiro wonders if maybe Keith naked would’ve been less distracting than Keith in sleek athleisure.

Keith is halfway through putting his long legs into the slim-fitting joggers when he looks up—long bits of messy hair falling into his eyes as he grins. “It is for me to know.”

Shiro’s heart definitely speeds up at that. As much as he wants to say something else, his brain is apparently broken again, both from the sight of Keith in something like that and from Keith’s bravado. It’s all Shiro can do to avert his gaze as Keith pulls the joggers up.

Once he’s dressed, Keith straightens the knife at his hip then begins to walk backward towards the door. It’s not until he’s got his hand on the handle that he speaks again. “I was already prepared to wear your clothing, Shiro. You wasted your wager. Perhaps next time you will choose more wisely.”

Before Shiro can respond, Keith has disappeared, leaving Shiro in the kitchen still holding the fly swatter and once again confused and aroused—something that he’s starting to think might be his new normal.

 _Next time_ he thinks.

Next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream about Sheith with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro and Keith begin to get to know each other, and Keith finally gets to the meet animals on the farm, leading Shiro to one inevitable truth—he likes Keith.

Over the next few days Shiro learns several things about Keith—the most important being that Keith’s mood that first morning after he was rescued was not a one-off. Keith is not a morning person. In fact, he might be the least morning person that Shiro has ever met in his entire life. 

Every morning when Shiro comes downstairs, the door to the spare room is shut and there’s no sound from within. And every morning like clockwork, once the kitchen is filled with the smell of coffee and food, the door creaks open and bleary-eyed Keith appears. He stumbles out with his hair sticking up in every direction and his eyes half-shut, making a low sound not unlike a growl as he plops down at the kitchen table and hunches into himself.

Shiro discovers it’s best not to even say good morning until Keith’s had a plate full of protein and at least two mugs of black coffee.

He also learns that Keith is a human garbage disposal and will eat just about anything that Shiro puts in front of him, except carrots, which Shiro finds oddly endearing. Despite that, it becomes obvious quickly that Keith has a preference for carbs, inhaling them as quickly as Shiro supplies them. Normally Shiro makes a loaf of bread once a week. With Keith there, he’s making one every other day. His stock of potatoes is also disappearing faster than ever, along with the rice, because Keith loves to eat. A lot. Despite him being a good five inches shorter than Shiro and half his size, he somehow manages to pack away twice as much as Shiro at every meal. 

The first few days are a little strange as they navigate coexisting in the same space. It’s not bad, but it is a little awkward, at least for Shiro. He’s not used to not feeling relaxed in his own home, and he feels hyperaware of Keith’s existence at all times, even when he’s gone for hours attempting to fix his ship. Somehow, Shiro finds that he feels more awkward when Keith is gone than when he’s beside Shiro. When he’s gone, Shiro’s brain has too much time to think, but when he’s around it’s easier for Shiro to focus on the present.

In the afternoons Keith returns to the house looking tight-lipped and tired. There’s always a tension in his body and a stiffness in the way he holds himself. Some of this tension fades when Keith comes in to sit at the kitchen table. Shiro always makes sure to have a big glass of lemonade or flavored water ready while dinner cooks. It’s odd to be watched as he cooks, but not entirely unwelcome.

Keith is tense as Shiro moves around the kitchen. It’s not until the food is in front of Keith and his belly is halfway to full that his chattiness returns.

Over homemade cinnamon rolls with extra frosting and lots of coffee one afternoon, Keith tells Shiro about the day he decided to leave Daibazaal to come to Earth—to leave everything he’d ever known in search of the place his father was from.

Over a steaming bowl of Miso soup on a Wednesday, he tells Shiro about the way dying stars look as they burn out—bright and full of life despite their imminent demise.

Over pancakes for dinner on a day when Shiro is too tired to cook anything more elaborate, Keith tells Shiro about his favorite food from Daibazaal—something that sounds like a richly-spiced stew. There’s a longing in his eyes as he recounts the smell when his mother cooked it for him that makes Shiro itch to recreate the recipe even if he has no damn idea what Trhruktig root or Vrektag are.

Food, Shiro learns quickly, is the key to Keith opening up.

It’s a truth Shiro accepts early on and takes full advantage of. Keith likes to eat, Shiro likes to cook. If it just so happens that a full Keith is a happy and talkative Keith, it's nice for both of them. Shiro likes the sound of Keith’s voice as much as he likes soaking up every scrap of knowledge he learns about the stars and the Galra and most especially about Keith himself. 

So when, after a week of this new routine, Keith stomps into the kitchen after hours spent at his ship with his shoulders hunched and a frown on his face, Shiro doesn’t give it a second thought. He’s perfectly aware that Keith is cranky when he’s hungry and given that he was gone for nearly five hours, he’s got to be ready to eat his body weight in food.

“Hungry?” Shiro asks as Keith plops at the kitchen table.

Shiro’s not expecting an actual response, so he’s not surprised when there isn’t one. What he is surprised by is that when he deposits a plate piled high with homemade biscuits and mushroom gravy, Keith doesn’t immediately dig in. 

It’s weird, but not the weirdest thing that’s happened recently, so Shiro doesn’t think too much of it as he returns to the stove to get his own plate of food. When he turns back around with his own food he expects to see Keith’s food half-demolished already. Instead, he’s got his head bent over the plate as he pokes at it with the spoon.

“I can cook something else if you want,” Shiro offers, unsure what to make of Keith not eating anything and everything put in front of him.

Keith shakes his head, lips still drawn in a tight line. 

“Okay, but if you change your mind,” Shiro offers, trailing off when Keith remains silent.

He knows it’s silly to take it personally if Keith isn’t thrilled by the sight of the food. Objectively, he supposes that biscuits with gravy isn’t the nicest thing to look at, especially if you’ve never had it before and all you see is a plate of white mush. Besides, there are bound to be things he cooks that aren’t Keith’s favorite, and this particular recipe, made with mushrooms instead of sausage and a white gravy from scratch, is still a bit of a work in progress for Shiro who has been attempting to tweak it to perfection the last few months ever since he saw a non-vegetarian version on one of his favorite cooking shows. He’d thought for sure Keith would enjoy the pile of homemade biscuits beneath the thick gravy but as he takes the first bite, he doesn’t make his usual purring sound to indicate he enjoys the food.

Shiro feels pathetic for the way it makes his heart drop a little.

It’s just food. It’s got nothing to do with Shiro personally. Keith takes another bite and Shiro tells himself that he won't give it a second thought.

Ten minutes later though when there’s more missing from Shiro’s plate than Keith’s, Shiro gives it a second thought. And a third and a fourth. He knows he doesn’t know Keith, not really. They’ve exchanged bits and pieces of their cultures over meals, and he’s introduced Keith to a few of his favorite television shows after dinner, but they don’t _know_ each other. Yet Shiro can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

“If you don’t like the gravy there are extra biscuits, and I found another jar of that jam you liked so much hidden in the back of the pantry.”

Keith shakes his head again and the prickle of _something is off_ turns into an _I know something is wrong_. Keith never turns down jam.

“How are the repairs on the ship coming?” Shiro asks, attempting some casual small talk to ease the strange tension in the air.

It backfires spectacularly. 

Keith pushes his chair away from the table and stalks outside, leaving the back door wide open and Shiro staring at the back of his head.

Atlas, previously enamored with his own bowl of dog food in the corner, lifts his head and lets out a yap.

“Me too, buddy,” Shiro sighs, unsure what the hell just happened.

Clearly more interested in his dinner than what’s going on, Atlas returns his attention on his bowl of kibble. Shiro’s eyes remained trained on the open back door and the sight of Keith sitting on the top step of the back porch—shoulders hunched forward and his dark hair blowing in the wind. 

There’s no decision to be made as Shiro pushes away from the table and heads outside, quietly shutting the door behind him. Keith doesn’t look up at his approach, doesn’t even turn his head when Shiro drops down to sit beside him.

For a few seconds they’re both quiet, but it’s Shiro who breaks the silence.

“It’s pretty, huh?” Shiro says, eyes on the horizon and the way the early evening has begun to transform the farm. 

In the day the farm is all a flurry of activity—harsh sunlight and satisfying but undeniably hard work. This time of day—the golden hour as Shiro likes to call it—a calm begins to take over as the breezes shift and the air loses the punch of summer heat it usually carries. The animals will sleep soon, and the bunnies that spend all day hiding in the bushes are already beginning to appear. It’s Shiro’s favorite time of day—the liminal space after daytime but before the night sets in where there’s nothing to do but exist.

“If you can believe it, I bought this place sight unseen,” he says, unsure why he’s telling Keith this but feeling the inexplicable urge to share. “I didn’t even know what I was in the market for to be honest, just knew I was going to move somewhere and soon. I was up late one night looking for places for sale locally and I don’t even know how I ended up in this area because I’d never been to New York. Somehow though, I ended up on a property website across the country and found this place. The house was a bit of a fixer-upper and the gardens were in disrepair, but there was a photo from just this time of day and when I closed my eyes, I thought I could see myself sitting here just like we are now.”

Keith exhales, turning dark eyes on Shiro. “You are not what I expected a human to be like.”

“What did you expect?” Shiro asks, curiosity more than piqued.

Keith pauses, head cocked to the side as he appraises Shiro. “Not this. Not you.”

“I’m not sure if that’s good or bad,” Shiro laughs, trying to ignore the sudden fluttery feeling taking hold in his chest at being observed with such unflinching intensity. 

“It is good,” Keith says quietly.

It makes Shiro’s cheeks heat but he resists the urge to duck his head, instead keeping his gaze locked on Keith’s as an idea takes hold. “You know, there’s about an hour left before the sun sets, and I haven’t actually shown you around the farm.”

“I would enjoy that very much.”

“Fair warning, I’ve never actually given anyone a tour of anything. Not in an official capacity. So if I’m horrible at it, don’t tell me,” Shiro laughs, standing up and offering his hand to Keith.

“I do not believe that is possible,” Keith says, his warm fingers gripping Shiro’s as he allows him to pull him to standing. Keith’s hold lingers longer than is necessary, his gaze unwavering. 

“Right, uh…animals,” Shiro chokes out, clearing his throat.

“I look forward to all you have to show me,” Keith says, still gripping Shiro’s hand tightly. It makes warmth pool low in Shiro’s gut, and it’s all he can do to stay upright and not stumble down the last few steps.

“We should probably get going. Before we lose the good light,” Shiro says, but he doesn’t make any attempts to dislodge their hands either.

An unreadable expression passes across Keith’s face, there and gone so quickly Shiro has no idea what to make of it. Then he’s loosening his grip and dropping his hands to his sides. “Lead the way.”

Keith’s expression softens as he whispers, “Lead the way.”

The uncertainty of earlier fades, but the warmth in Shiro’s belly remains long after Keith stops looking at him. By the time they’ve crossed the yard out into the pasture, Shiro’s managed to push aside any residual arousal in favor of doing what he set out to do—distracting Keith from whatever is bothering him.

“This is Kaltenecker,” Shiro declares, leaning against the fence post. In the distance, Kaltenecker chomps on grass, completely unbothered by their arrival.

“What is a Kaltenecker?” Keith asks, climbing onto the bottom railing of the wooden fence to get a better look.

“She’s a cow,” Shiro answers, charmed by the way Keith doesn’t mask his own curiosity. 

“What is the purpose of a cow?” He asks, leaning forward.

Shiro thinks it over before he responds. “Depends on who you ask I suppose. Some people raise them to eat, others raise them for milk.”

“And you?” Keith asks, his gaze leaving the cow to focus instead on Shiro.

“Neither,” Shiro answers. “She used to live on a dairy farm two towns over, but she couldn’t get pregnant which meant she couldn’t produce milk, which meant she couldn’t make the dairy farm any money. Let’s just say she needed a new home and I had the space.”

“You saved her,” Keith observes, easily reading between the lines.

Shiro shrugs. “It was the right thing to do. No one’s life should depend on their ability to produce for someone else. No one, not animal or human, should ever lose their worth because of…because of that.”

Shiro’s gaze drifts down to the empty space where his right arm used to be.

_You’ll be released from services in three days, Shirogane. You were a good pilot and the Garrison will always remember the advances you made for us, but you can no longer pilot a plane with one arm._

“Shiro.”

Keith’s voice startles him from his thoughts and Shiro clears his throat. “Sorry. Do you, uh, want to meet her?”

“I can meet her?” Keith asks, looking unexpectedly excited.

“Yeah,” Shiro says with a nod, any lingering malaise fading at the sight of Keith’s clear interest. 

Shiro lets out a low whistle, grabbing the bucket of feed from the ground and shaking here. “Come here, baby.”

Kaltenecker’s head comes out and she lets out a low moo before slowly ambling across the paddock. She moos again when she gets close enough to see the bucket in Shiro’s hand.

“Wow,” Keith breathes, turning wide eyes on Shiro. “You can make animals come with one call?”

Shiro laughs, “It’s just a cow.”

“Your mastery of the cow is most impressive,” Keith says without an ounce of sarcasm.

Shiro purposely doesn’t mention that it’s likely the feed bucket and not Shiro she’s responding to.

“Oh, uh…I mean. Yeah,” Shiro mumbles, cheeks heating. Shiro’s not used to that kind of praise, especially for something so mundane. It’s the only excuse for what he says next, obviously. “Not just anyone could do this. I am, uh…quite competent at cows.” 

He bites the inside of his cheek after to keep himself from saying anything else stupid. _Quite competent at cows_. Shiro’s a fucking disaster is what he is.

“I can see,” Keith agrees, thankfully not questioning Shiro’s statement.

“How would you like to feed her?” Shiro asks, desperate to change the subject before he turns into a damn posturing peacock.

“Yes,” Keith nods, hopping down off the fence and moving closer. This proves to be less helpful than Shiro anticipated because Keith being closer means Shiro is now hyperaware of the way the loose tank top flutters around his arms, or the way the evening breeze has bits of his bangs blowing in the wind. “What do we do?”

“Watch,” Shiro says, thankful at least one of them has two working brain cells. He hangs the bucket of feed on the hook by the gate, scooping up a handful of it with his left hand before holding it out to Keith. “Open your hands.”

Keith does it instantly, his fist unfurling as he turns his open hand palm up. Slowly Shiro tips the feed into his hand, a few pieces falling into the grass.

“Now just slide your hand out through the hole in the fence and—no, not like that,” Shiro laughs when Keith closes his fist. “Here, let me help.”

“Okay,” Keith whispers, standing very still.

“Open your hand again,” Shiro instructs, grazing his own hand across Keith’s wrist. Keith tenses for a few seconds and Shiro almost pulls back his hand but then Keith relaxes, turning his head to watch Shiro’s face as Shiro returns his hand to Keith’s, placing his hand beneath Keith’s—palm up to cradle the back of his hand. His throat goes a little dry watching the way their hands look slotted together—Keith’s fingers are rough and calloused, but smaller and more elegant looking than Shiro’s massive hand. 

It’s nice, they way Keith’s hand feels in his. He can’t remember the last time he touched someone else, or was touched. Hadn’t even considered that not doing so was abnormal until the mere brush of their skin has Shiro’s heart in his throat and racing faster than the speed of light.

“Now what?” Keith asks, voice pitched so low it sends a twang of pleasure straight into Shiro’s gut. He’s becoming dangerously fond of the sweet timbre of Keith’s voice, and thinks he could get used to the way his voice sounds carried on the wind or echoing in the quiet of his empty home. 

“Now we feed her,” Shiro whispers, cupping his hand more firmly against the back of Keith’s and helping guide it through the gap in the fence. “She’s already eaten today, but a little treat won’t hurt.”

As soon as Kaltenecker notices the feed she comes closer, opening her mouth to eat. The second her long tongue comes out Keith jumps, and Shiro is helpless to stop the laughter that rumbles out of his chest. 

“She won’t bite,” Shiro tells him, pressing his chest to Keith’s back.

“I was not afraid,” Keith insists, though the way his body had trembled at the first sight of her large teeth suggests otherwise.

“If I was on a foreign planet meeting some animal the same size as me, I’m not sure I’d hand feed it. You must be very brave.”

It’s the right thing to say, because Keith’s entire demeanor shifts—shoulders straightening as he stands just that little bit taller. “The Galra value bravery above all else.”

“Then you must have been very valued,” Shiro says, barely resisting the urge to close his eyes and inhale the scent of Keith’s hair as it whips in the wind and tickles his nose. 

Keith’s body tenses but he doesn’t move away. “The Galra…do not take kindly to those who are different.”

Shiro’s heart stutters, an indescribable sadness hitting him all at once. Keith doesn’t need to say more for Shiro to be able to put the pieces Keith has already revealed together. _Half-Galra and half-human. Not what people expected. Desperate to come to Earth in search of another half of himself he’s never known._

“I wish I could say humans were better but they’re…they’re not,” he confides, voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes people’s discomfort with things that don’t fit into their little boxes causes them to be painfully unkind.”

A soft rumble comes out of Keith but he doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches on, not awkward but ready to be filled. It’s Shiro’s chance to say something important, to tell Keith how glad he is that he’s there or how excited he is to learn more about his culture. What comes out is none of that.

“I have goats.”

Shiro snaps his mouth shut as soon as he’s spoken. _I have goats._ What he has is an incurable case of blabber mouth around Keith. Never in his life has Shiro felt so wrong-footed but excited by the presence of someone else. He’s no stranger to attraction, or even some casual dating—but he’s never had the itch to _know_ someone else, to _really_ know them.

He wants to know Keith. It's as thrilling as it is terrifying. Especially since he keeps doing stupid things like ruining the moment.

“What is a goat?” Keith asks, turning his head and tipping his chin back to peer up at Shiro. His lip is turned up in the corner and if Shiro didn’t know better, he’d swear Keith was amused by him.

“It’s, uh…another animal. I'll show you. They’re cute.”

* * *

“This is not cute,” Keith says, hands on his hips as he eyes down the goat in front of him.

After Kaltenecker, they’d stopped off at the pasture so Shiro could introduce Keith to his horse, Ulaz, before meeting the goats. It’d gone surprisingly well, and Keith had taken to the horse without missing a beat—hand outstretched as he’d lowered his gaze and approached Ulaz slowly. He’d seemed in awe of him and though goats weren’t horses, Shiro had expected something along the same lines. If not awe, at least a little amusement.

So far all they’d had was _this_ —Keith standing there with his stance wide and his hand hovering at his hip above his blade, poised as if ready to attack.

“Lance is harmless,” Shiro promises.

“He attacked me unprovoked. On Daibazaal he would already be dead.” 

“On Earth we don’t kill goats for offending us.” Shiro sighs, realizing more information will be necessary. “He, uh…well, he’s obnoxiously overfriendly, but he couldn’t hurt a fly even if he wanted to. Do you see his horns?” At Keith's nod Shiro continues. “As a baby he was part of a traveling petting zoo for a carnival. His horns were shaved off to keep him safer, and he was kept in a really small cage. Eventually he got too big and the petting zoos didn’t want him anymore, but he didn’t know that. He likes people. I think he’s just overexcited.”

Keith still doesn’t look convinced. “He is challenging me.”

“He’s—no. He’s headbutting you because he likes you.”

“This is not logical.”

“Goats aren’t logical, they're goats,” Shiro says, unable to believe the sentence he just uttered. “Lance, come here.”

Lance lets out a long bleat, jabbing Keith in the hip with his head instead of coming to Shiro. Before things can get out of hand, Shiro runs between them, shoving his hand into his pocket and pulling out a fistful of sunflower seeds he’d stashed there before they left for just this sort of emergency.

“Keith is a friend. We don’t headbutt friends.”

Again Lance bahs loudly, attempting to get around Shiro, but Shiro’s quicker, dropping to his knees and hugging Lance, shoving his open palm under Lance’s mouth. The moment Lance sees the sunflower seeds he goes docile, practically inhaling them. Once they’re gone Shiro pats his belly, stroking his hands down his side.

“He’s a good boy. Annoying, but you know,” Shiro trails off with a shrug.

“The animals enjoy you,” Keith says, finally dropping his hands to his sides.

“I suppose, yeah. They know who feeds them. They’d probably love anyone if they fed them enough,” Shiro tells him, patting Lance’s side one last time before rising back up.

“Would you like to meet Allura and Hunk?”

“Who are they?”

“The only ones who can put with Lance,” Shiro laughs, leading him to the other side of the small paddock where Allura and Lance reside on the far side hidden behind the hay bails. “They’re not quite as friendly as Lance. I got Allura and Hunk from a pair of city goers who’d inherited their grandpa's farm and had no idea how to raise goats. They were using them like lawn mowers to clear land, and they were severely malnourished when I got them. They’re a little timid around people but—”

Before Shiro can finish, Keith has bent down, holding his hand out with his palm open in a submissive manner much in the same way he had when he met Ulaz. When he speaks his voice is lower than normal, the words unmistakably Galran and not English. There are no easy breaks between words like English, and Shiro has no idea if Keith’s said one long word or ten. Logically, he knows Keith is speaking to the goats, but the strange words pierce his heart as if they’re meant for him.

“What did you say?” Shiro asks, eyes wide as Hunk lets out a low baa.

Slowly Hunk trots out first, followed seconds later by Allura.

“I do not know the words in English, but…it is a Galran saying. Parents often whisper it to their kits as they put them to sleep. Roughly translated it means I will never do you harm.”

Allura watches from a few steps behind but once Hunk is close enough to smell Keith’s hand, she too comes forward. Lance isn’t far behind, sprinting across the pasture and butting his head against Keith’s back—albeit with less force than the last time.

“You’re good at this, at getting animals to trust you I mean.”

Keith shrugs. “When I was a kit there was a herd of Trhreg that lived at the edge of the forest. The Galra believe they are unlucky—that their presence will bring doom to a clan—but I did not. I wished to see them for myself but they are a fearful animal. Every sunrise I would sneak into the forest before training and bring them scraps I’d saved from the day before and leave them in the clearing. After many movements they stopped hiding and would come out when I came to visit. It was an entire family. There was even a kit—so small it could barely walk on wobbly legs and its horns had not yet grown in.”

“They sound amazing.”

“They were,” Keith agrees, stroking his hand over Hunk’s horns. “Until the elders learned what I was doing.”

Shiro’s stomach drops, and he asks the question he’s almost afraid to hear the answer too. “What happened?”

“I was followed,” Keith says, voice dropping. “The Trhreg were killed.”

“ _Keith._ ” 

“It was an important lesson,” Keith interrupts, a quiver in his voice. “The good of the clan must always come before the desire of one. It was a weakness to bond with the Trhreg.”

“I don’t believe that,” Shiro interjects. “Kindness is never weak.”

“The Galra are not all bad,” Keith offers, whether for Shiro’s benefit or his own, Shiro isn’t sure. “They are strong and proud and fierce. They are loyal. But they have seen much pain and war. I was born in a time of peace, but many elders did not trust the peace would stay. There was much fear. Anything that might threaten that peace was not tolerated. I had trouble following the rules of my people.”

The words make Shiro’s throat go tight. It’s so easy to imagine Keith younger and smaller—full of excitement and curiosity like he has now. It’s equally easy to imagine someone trying to shove him into a mold which never felt like it fit.

“For what it’s worth, I think kindness is brave.”

Keith is quiet for so long that Shiro thinks he isn’t going to say anything—fears that perhaps he’s misstepped. 

“Thank you,” Keith murmurs. Then, without missing a beat, he speaks again. “I still do not enjoy Lance.”

Shiro’s laughter bubbles up, untethered and free.

“What?” Keith says, eyebrows furrowed when he turns confused eyes on Shiro. 

Somehow it makes Shiro laugh even harder. Every time he comes close to stopping he laughs again, then again—laughs until his stomach is sore and his cheeks hurt. When he finally stops, Keith is staring at him like he’s grown an extra head while all three goats attempt to eat his joggers.

It’s not until Shiro is falling until bed later that night that he realizes he didn’t think about what was coming next week even once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream about Sheith with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the anniversary of Shiro's accident, everything is fine. Until it's not. 
> 
> For the first time though, Shiro is not alone.

Shiro wakes bright and early—the early summer sunrise peeking through his open curtains. It’s better than an alarm clock at waking him, partly because Shiro likes the way it feels to have the sun on his face, and partly because there’s no snooze button so he can’t willfully ignore it. Even so he wakes slowly, rolling onto his back and stretching out the kinks from sleep, accidentally dislodging Atlas who’d apparently been sleeping with his face shoved against Shiro’s back.

“Morning, Atlas,” Shiro whispers, reaching over to stroke his head.

A low sound of happiness comes from Atlas as he presses his nose into Shiro’s bare hip—the sound not unlike a purr as it rumbles out of his chest. It’s familiar and soothing, and Shiro scratches behind Atlas’s ear.

“I’m happy too,” he tells him, surprised by the truth of it.

Over the last few days, the anticipation of how he might feel today has been almost unbearable. He’s gone about his days much the same as always—breakfast with Keith, hours spent alone tending animals and farm work, then home for dinner with Keith again. In many ways, it was not unlike his usual daily routine, but in others it was entirely different. Shiro had always been fine alone, or so he thought. It wasn’t until he had someone to wake up to, or wind down with after a long day, that he realized he didn’t need to be unhappy for the possibility of being _even happier_ to exist.

As the days ticked closer to the thirtieth—the anniversary of his crash and subsequent loss of his arm—he’d become increasingly nervous that he might wake up feeling much the same as he had in past years—despondent and melancholy. And lonely. 

He doesn't. 

Instead, there’s a quiet sort of calm that permeates his mood as he starts the day. He dresses quickly, Atlas following close behind. He’s got everything down to a science now—putting on the coffee before he starts to cook or feeds Atlas. As the coffee brews he pulls the last of his puff pastry from the deep freeze on the back porch to thaw while he uses up the last of yesterday’s eggs to whip up a quick quiche filling. By the time Keith stumbles out of the bedroom looking like an angry opossum—his hair flying wild in every direction and a grumpy frown on his lips—Shiro’s already got the biggest mug in the house filled with coffee and the quiche is nearly done baking. 

Without a word he passes the coffee to Keith the second he steps into the kitchen, stealing glances at Keith as he cradles the mug as if the coffee is some sort of elixir of life.

Breakfast is a silent affair, as it is most mornings. Shiro welcomes it now. Those first few days, the silence had felt painfully awkward, but now Shiro takes it for what it is—a companionable but quiet start to the day. He knows Keith’s stay isn’t actually permanent, but he’s no longer so afraid that one wrong step will have Keith leaving to fix his ship and never coming back. Keith is here now and while Shiro might not know how long this will last, he's learning to appreciate it just the same without worry overshadowing the pleasure.

When Keith departs for the day after breakfast, Shiro’s easy mood remains. It stays with him as he cleans up the breakfast dishes and heads outside. It remains while he weeds the strawberry field and tacks up Ulaz one-handed—leather held between his teeth as he readies to ride. It stays with him as he and Ulaz lap the property, checking on the barn cats on one side of the farm and then letting Kaltenecker out to pasture on the other. 

It stays through the afternoon as Shiro finishes up his farmwork early—his body exhausted and sore, but in a good way.

Dinner that night is a simple affair. Shiro’s working from a pretty bare cupboard and knows he needs to head into town any day now, which means he’s scavenging for scraps. He ends up finding just enough quinoa and black rice for an easy grain bowl. A quick run out to the garden to harvest a bunch of fresh kale completes the meal as he sautes it up in coconut oil since his supply of butter is sadly depleted. He layers the greens and grains in a bowl, topping it with a very generous helping of his homemade kimchi—the last of the jar he’d made last week. It’s another thing Keith seems fond of, requesting it with dinner every night regardless of what Shiro cooks.

Shiro’s version is even spicier than normal—a Shirogane family recipe his grandmother had taught him to make before he could even walk. It’s the single most comforting food in Shiro’s kitchen (aside from his secret stash of Oreos). It was silly how nervous he’d been for Keith to try it, afraid that he might dislike it. The worry proved unfounded as Keith had quite literally inhaled it and asked for seconds.

Since that day, Shiro makes an effort to make meals that are enhanced by the addition of his favorite side dish.

The meal now complete, Shiro turns around to set the table in anticipation of Keith’s return, then hesitates—eyeing the horizon through the open window. The air is still hot, but the sun has begun its early evening descent, meaning the summer heat is warm but no longer oppressive. Eager to soak up some fresh air without sweating through his clothes, Shiro abandons the food in favor of retrieving the folding tray he used to eat his dinner on before Keith came from the living room. He sets it up on the back porch in front of the wooden bench. By the time he’s made a few trips back and forth to bring out the food and two mason jars of his favorite iced tea, he can see Keith’s silhouette in the distance.

Shiro sips his tea slowly, watching Keith’s approach with a smile on his face. It was a long day, but a good day. Shiro doesn’t take that for granted.

Before coming onto the porch, Keith stops off at the hose, flipping on the water and washing his hands. Shiro expects him to turn it off when he’s done, but instead he turns the nozzle on his face dousing it in water. When he’s done he shakes it off, not unlike Atlas after a bath, sending water droplets flying and his hair becoming, if possible, even more disheveled. It's nothing short of adorable.

“Feel better?” Shiro laughs, watching on with bemusement. 

“Much,” Keith agrees. “Your Earth weather is warmer than New Daibazaal. I will get used to it soon.”

“Until you do, I fully support the hose method. I’ve definitely done that more than once.”

“It is most refreshing,” Keith agrees, winding the end of the hose back up on the hose keeper then jogging up the back steps two at a time. It’s only once he’s closer that he seems to notice what Shiro has done.

For one brief moment Shiro’s stomach swoops with something that feels strangely like nervousness. He shakes it off immediately. It’s just dinner and Keith. 

“This is…different,” Keith observes, eyeing the folding tray with obvious interest.

“Oh, uh…yeah. It’s just so nice tonight I thought we might as well enjoy it. Unless you’d prefer to eat inside. I can move everything if you do or—”

“No,” Keith interrupts, dropping down onto the bench beside Shiro. “I will enjoy this very much.”

“Oh, good,” Shiro murmurs, cheeks warming.

Before digging into the food Keith goes for the tea, picking it up and turning it around. “There is food inside my beverage.”

“Yeah,” Shiro laughs. “It’s Japanese iced tea, which is a little different than American iced tea. Not that you’ve had that kind either, but I prefer this. It’s made with Hojicha tea and fresh cucumbers and peaches. My grandma used to make it in the summer when I was little. She said it wasn’t really summer without it.”

Keith turns his eyes from the tea to Shiro with an intensity that is piercing.

“Your grandparents were your clan?”

Shiro nods. “My parents passed away when I was a baby. My grandparents raised me but they were older. It wasn’t always easy for them I think, but they never made me feel like a burden. They’ve been gone for a while now though.”

“Then it is only you?”

“Me and Atlas,” Shiro corrects. “We get along okay. We made a home here and…we’re happy. I’m happy.”

“Home,” Keith whispers.

“Yeah. And you’re welcome here. For as long as you’d like to stay,” Shiro tells him, aware he’s being a little selfish wanting to keep Keith here to himself when Keith is so eager to explore Earth. He rationalizes it away with the knowledge that Keith is safe here and Shiro is as eager for Keith's company as he is to make sure nothing happens to him.

“Thank you,” Keith says quietly, his fingers curling around the mason jar. 

“It’s nothing,” Shiro says, even though it feels the opposite for him.

As they eat in companionable quiet, the sun continues to sink, painting the farm in hues of pink and orange. Shiro soaks it in, sipping his tea and recalling the way his grandparents used to sit on the front porch together in the summers drinking tea and talking. When they thought Shiro was asleep, they’d turn on the old radio and sit in their rocking chairs listening to music.

This isn’t the same, but the feeling of contentment is.

 _Happy_ , Shiro thinks.

He’s happy.

* * *

Shiro wakes with a start, paralyzing fear gripping him. 

He gasps for air, nearly choking on it. His chest is tight. So tight it's hard to breathe. 

He gasps again, inhaling air that fills his lungs but does nothing to assuage the feeling of choking. Blindly, his hand scrambles up, pawing at his throat but there’s nothing there. 

A sidelong glance at Atlas shows he’s still asleep. Desperate to not wake him, Shiro lurches from bed as quietly as he can, which is not very quiet at all since he trips over his own shoes and nearly goes face first into the closed door. Thankfully, Atlas seems to be in a deep sleep and doesn’t rise from the bed as Shiro stumbles down the hallway.

Air. Shiro needs air.

With poor accuracy but an impressive amount of speed considering his current mental state, he manages to make it down the stairs and through the kitchen, the back door swinging open with such force it slams into the house. Shiro can’t care. Not when his head is spinning and it feels as if his lungs are being crushed by rocks.

Not rocks, he thinks. Lack of oxygen.

It’s so much like the way he’d felt those last few moments before being saved—gasping and gasping for something but coming up short. He’d been so sure he was going to die then, trapped in space adrift and alone with a broken oxygen tank.

This time Shiro is not alone. He drops to the ground on the porch, bathed in nothing but the shadow of a crescent moon as he pulls his knees up then drops his head down between them. 

Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, Shiro begins to count.

_One—his name is Takashi Shirogane._

_Two—he nearly died in the Anadeia Star System when his navigation systems went offline during a solar storm, causing his ship to fly directly into an asteroid._

_Three—he lost his arm, but not his life._

_Four—he lives on a farm now. Atlas is his family._

_Five—an alien crash landed on his farm two weeks ago. That alien is Keith._

_Six—Shiro likes Keith. He likes him a lot._

_Seven—Keith likes Shiro’s cooking._

_Eight—Keith likes Shiro too. He thinks._

_Nine—Stars are always in complete balance._

_Ten—Keith came from the stars._

Shiro stops counting once he gets to ten—the crippling weight in his chest slowly receding enough that he no longer feels as if he might be dying. He keeps his head down low, running his hand over the back of his neck as he takes in slow, steady breaths—in through his nose and out through his mouth. He repeats the action several more times before raising his head to peer out into the night.

The moon is dwarfed enough tonight that barely anything is visible. It makes the sounds even more noticeable—the hooting of an animal, the loud thrum of the cicadas, and what sounds suspiciously like a maa from one of his insomniac goats. The sounds are grounding,soothing Shiro’s frayed nerves,and he soaks them in as the trembling leaves his limbs.

It’s another few minutes until he feels steady enough to stand. He shuffles his bare feet back into the kitchen shutting the door behind him stuck in his spot. He’s been awake long enough to know he won’t be able to simply return to bed and crash. The only thing that will happen if he goes back upstairs now is that he’ll wake Atlas up with his tossing and turning. He could go crash on the couch, but Shiro doesn’t feel much like laying down, the memory of breathlessness still too fresh.

He makes a mental note to contact his therapist for an extra virtual session soon. For now though, the most comforting thing he can think of will come out of a box. Not wanting to disturb Keith either, Shiro flips on the small light above the stove rather than the overhead lights. It’s not enough to light up the room, but it’s enough for Shiro to see what he’s doing as he grabs the cashew milk from the fridge and fills a large glass. He puts the milk back away before digging out the massive box of Oreos hidden in the hallway as quietly as possible, returning to the kitchen with a double pack.

It’s not the first time Shiro’s sat alone in his kitchen eating Oreos and milk, but it's the first time he’s done it since Keith arrived, and he feels hyperaware of how damn loud the plastic wrapper is as he peels it open. He’s barely got out his first Oreo—preparing to submerge it in the cashew milk—when he hears one of the floorboards in the hallway creak.

Shiro freezes, senses alert and hand hovering above his glass as he watches the darkened archway. There’s nothing but silence for a few seconds, and then that silence is broken by a second creak of the floorboards, and then a third. It’s enough for him to know who is coming, but somehow he still feels surprised by Keith’s appearance. 

“Did I wake you?” Shiro asks quietly, setting the Oreo down on the kitchen table.

Keith shakes his head, eyes only half open. 

“I can turn the light off if it's bothering you or—” but the words catch in his throat as Keith ambles into the kitchen and steps into the small pool of light. 

He’s wearing Shiro’s pajama pants—a new pair this time—that hang long over his bare feet, his toes barely peeking out. The pants sit low on his waist, the drawstring pulled tight to keep them up. He’s shirtless, revealing an expanse of pale skin and striking purple marks that Shiro hasn’t seen since that first morning after. Keith yawns, jaw cracking as he squeezes his eyes shut and stretches his arms overhead, slow and languid like a cat.

When he’s finished stretching, he turns his drowsy eyes on Shiro whose heart stutters in his chest, though less from anxiety and more from something Shiro doesn’t quite have words for. There are pillow lines deep in Keith’s cheek on the side with his scar, and his hair is all sticking up to the left. Even more disarming than his sleepmussed appearance is the look in his eyes—a far cry from his cranky early morning demeanor or his sometimes guarded moods in during the light of day. He’s looking at Shiro with something that looks eerily like concern.

When he speaks, his voice is low and gravelly with sleep. “I was under the impression humans required sleep for adequate health.”

Shiro bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He never wants Keith to think he’s laughing _at_ him but two weeks in and Keith’s specific way of talking, half-formal and half-misuse of slang, is something Shiro is sure he won’t ever stop being endeared by.

“We do,” he answers, when he trusts himself not to laugh and risk offending Keith.

“Then I do not understand,” Keith says, inching closer. Shiro’s breath catches in his throat when Keith sits down opposite him, clearly meaning to stay. “You are awake before me, and you retire after me. When do you sleep?”

“Ah, well—now. Normally,” Shiro answers.

Keith doesn’t ask the question Shiro can see on the tip of his tongue, but it hangs between them all the same.

“I never told you about my time in space. Not really.”

Keith’s eyes widen, fingers linking together above the table. If nothing else his obvious curiosity bolsters Shiro’s confidence. It’s a story he’s only ever told three people—his boss at the Garrison, the doctor at the hospital who saved him, and the psychologist said doctor referred him to after hearing the story.

“I was a nerdy kid who spent most of my days with my face buried in a book—or trying to jump off the roof to see if I could fly.” At Keith’s laugh, Shiro can’t help but smile. “For a good kid, I got in a lot of trouble. Which isn’t the point. My point is for as long as I can remember, I dreamed of going to space. My room had these glow in the dark stars you stick on the ceilings, and I put them up in the shape of my favorite constellations. Even my pajamas and sheets had stars. Hell, everything I owned had stars. Once my grandparents realized I liked it, they sorta latched on and went crazy. Stars on everything for every birthday or holiday.” 

Shiro stops, the memory warm. 

“You were close to them?” Keith queries. 

Shiro nods. “Very. They supported me every step of the way. Took out a second mortgage on their home to put into a private school to better my odds of getting into the Naval academy. Then just before graduation, I was approached by the Garrison—a private space program. They wanted me to be the lead pilot on some new high speed proto jet. My grandparents were terrified since everything was off the books, and the safety standards were definitely not regulation. But it was a chance to fly, reallyfly. Plus, they said if things went well I’d be fast tracked into their intergalactic space program. Everything they were doing was risky, but exciting.”

“You enjoy thrill,” Keith says. It’s not a question.

“Yeah, I used to. Biggest thrill I get out here is chasing foxes away from my chicken coops,” Shiro laughs. When the laughter fades the silence hangs and Shiro fills it with an offering, pushing the package of Oreos towards Keith. “Want one?”

Keith nods, pulling a cookie out and turning it in his fingers. He doesn’t take a bite, but rather shoves the entire thing into his mouth at once. He barely chews it twice before his eyes light up.

“You can eat as many as you like. They’re my one weakness. Most food is better homemade but…not Oreos.”

“Oreos,” Keith repeats, testing the word out as he takes two more. “I enjoy your Oreos.”

“Me too,” Shiro says. “Growing up my grandma wouldn’t buy anything out of a package. She said she had two hands and was perfectly capable of cooking for herself. Between you and me, she was stubborn as a mule, and an incredible cook. I was nine years old before I realized my grandpa kept Oreos hidden in the top of his desk drawer in his office so my grandma wouldn’t find out. It was the only room in the house she didn’t use. Anyway, one day I went in while he was supposed to be working to ask him for help with my homework and there he was sitting there eating Oreos of all things. It sorta became our thing after. We’d eat them together in my grandpa’s office. We were a team. He would buy the contraband cookies and sneak them into the house and I was responsible for smuggling the wrapper out to the trash can without my grandma finding out.”

“Did you ever get caught?”

Shiro shakes his head. “No, but to be honest I always wondered if my grandma knew and just didn’t say anything. But, shit, I’m getting off track, sorry.”

“I do not mind,” Keith says, not at all slyly stealing another Oreo. Shiro pushes it closer, enjoying the sight of Keith eating them more than he would if he were the one eating them himself.

“I promised to tell you about space so, uh—” Shiro pauses, fingers tapping on the tabletop. “Technically I signed a non-disclosure agreement when I left the Garrison. Promised to never tell another person about what I saw.”

“I understand,” Keith says seriously. 

“Yeah, but funny thing about contracts on Earth. They’re specific, really specific. Usually to stop you from finding a way around them. Before signing mine, I might have possibly had them alter the wording about not telling anyone about what happened to not telling any humans born on Earth. Told them it was because I wanted to talk to my dog about what happened without feeling like I was breaking the law, and they didn’t question me. They agreed pretty quickly actually, probably because they were just happy to not have me be a liability anymore. I don’t think they counted on me meeting any more aliens to talk to.”

By the time he’s finished, there’s a full-blown smile on Keith’s face—his elbows on the table as he leans forward. “I was not born on Earth.”

“No, you weren’t,” Shiro agrees, self-satisfaction welling up inside of him. Truthfully, right after the accident he hadn’t really believed he’d ever meet another alien, but requesting the alteration to his NDA was a desperate attempt to feel in control of a situation that was very much out of his control. He’s grateful for it now. 

“You are full of the surprise,” Keith says, still smiling.

“Thanks,” Shiro breathes, 

“So you will tell me?” Keith asks, unmistakably eager.

Shiro nods, tracing his fingers over the wood-grain on the tabletop. Self-satisfaction gives way to unease, a small lump forming in his throat. It’s been so long since he talked about this. 

“I went to the Garrison right out of high school—I was eighteen and not afraid of anything. My flight scores were off the chart, and my willingness to take risks meant I rose through the ranks pretty quickly. By the time I was twenty-one, I was flying solo missions across the Atlantic in jets that—on paper—didn’t even exist. I always knew there was a risk involved, but it felt like I was doing something amazing, you know? There was nothing like the euphoria of being in the pilot's seat. It was almost everything I wanted.”

“Almost?” Keith whispers.

“Yeah. Almost. The flying was amazing, but my dream had always been to get to space—to see the stars for myself. But I knew that if I kept showing my bosses how good I was at my job, and was patient, eventually these things might happen. And then it did. I was twenty-five when I got the call that I would be piloting Kerberos.”

“What is a Kerberos?” Keith asks.

“It was a ship. A very expensive, very experimental ship. Humans have been to space before—landed on the moon in the sixties. But that’s as far as we’ve gotten, and the space program was shut down when I was a teenager. The Garrison though, they weren’t the government. And they wanted to go to space. Not just space, but deep space. I spent the next nine months in intensive training—flying along a parabolic loop to simulate weightlessness, rigorous physical and mental health tests, and countless hours practicing space walks underwater in a Neutral Buoyancy lab. I was two months shy of twenty-six when I got the call that I was ready. A week later I was strapped into Kerberos—the most high tech space plane ever made. A journey that should have taken me weeks was only going to take days. I was going to be the first person in human history to fly into deep space.”

Shiro exhales a shaky breath, reaching for his milk and taking a sip. The first part was easy to tell, the next part so not so much. He’s grateful for Keith’s silence as he composes himself, draining his glass before speaking again.

“The space plane was incredible. More than I could have ever dreamed of. After a week of flying I was at the edge of the galaxy, charting stars that had never been seen by the human eye. It was perfect. Until it wasn’t,” Shiro says quietly, voice trailing off as he swipes at the condensation forming on the side of his glass. He’s not particularly thirsty anymore but he takes a drink anyway just for a small break to calm his nerves.

“On the ninth day I ran into a geomagnetic storm. It was…the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. And would also turn out to be the most dangerous. I followed flight protocol and maintained the recommended distance from the storm, but the thing about piloting a test plane is everything is theoretical. The engineers said Kerberos would be unaffected by these kinds of storms. They were wrong.”

Shiro pauses again, blowing out a deep breath to loosen the tension in his jaw. He drops his head, staring at the tabletop, unable to find the words. He hadn’t realized how hard it would be to say out loud. The words are on the tip of his tongue, the memory burned into his brain despite the time since it happened. And yet, the words won’t come.

He opens his mouth to try again but nothing comes out but air. 

Before he can try a third time, there are warm fingers touching his and Keith’s smaller hand covers his. “You are very brave.”

There’s a soft sob that Shiro only realizes came from him when he feels moisture pooling at his eyes. Keith’s touch is so unexpected, such a small act of comfort that Shiro would have never dared asked for. Instead of ending the touch, Keith squeezes the top of Shiro’s hand gently. 

Shiro makes the embarrassing noise again, unsure when the last time someone touched him like this was. It’s easier to find the words with the weight of Keith’s touch.

“Things went downhill fast. The storm knocked out my navigation systems and for the first twenty-four hours, that was okay. I’d had simulation training for this exact worst case scenario, and my ability to navigate difficult situations was one of the reasons I was chosen for the mission. But then I ran into a second storm, twice as big as the first. It was harder to find the beauty in the situation when I knew what was going to come after. Sure enough, by the time I’d come out of the storm, I couldn’t transmit any of my flight logs to Earth anymore, and the heating and cooling systems went offline. It was downhill from there.”

As Shiro slows his breathing, he feels the tears silently falling down his cheek, and he has no damn idea if it's from talking about this for the first time in two years, or if it’s just been so long since he had gentle human contact that holding hands is enough to throw his emotional state off balance. Either way, he continues on. He’s gotten this far and he wants to finish. He _needs_ to finish.

“I was outside of the ship in my extravehicular mobility suit trying to repair the thermal sensors when I realized what was happening—I was approaching an asteroid belt. By the time I was able to get back inside it was too late to fly away—the gravitational pull was too strong. I did my best to fly through it, but without the sensors or nav system I was flying blind. I almost made it too, and then a massive asteroid came out of nowhere. It crashed directly into the cockpit. I was thrown from the pilot seat and hit my head. After that things get a little hazy. When I woke up, I could barely breathe. There was a crack in the ship somewhere, and the oxygen levels were reaching critical levels.”

Keith’s face is unreadable, but his grip on the top of Shiro’s hand tightens.

“I was sure I was going to die up there,” he continues. “The ship rumbled, and I was sure I was hallucinating the sound of someone boarding. But I wasn’t. They were real. I know it. One minute I was taking my last breath and the next there was an alien above me, cradling my head and putting on one of the oxygen masks from the emergency kit over my face. The last thing I saw before I passed out was purple skin and yellow eyes. The next thing I knew I was re-entering Earth’s atmosphere. I managed to get back into the pilot’s seat to steer, but the throttle was broken, so I couldn’t reduce my speed enough for the landing and—boom.”

“Boom,” Keith echoes quietly, his grip deathly tight.

“Lost my job and my arm, but you know…I didn’t die.” Shiro exhales slowly, surprised at the weight that feels lifted off his shoulder. For so long he’s kept this story to himself, sure that as long as he knew the truth it didn’t matter if anyone else did. 

It matters, he thinks. It does matter.

“Despite the NDA I signed, somehow rumors spread in the press about a Garrison employee who’d crashed a billion dollar space plane because of aliens. The Garrison was…desperate to do damage control, so I wasn’t allowed to challenge the story put out. Eventually I was well enough to leave the hospital, but by then the damage was done. I’d lost the respect of my previous colleagues and people thought I’d gone space crazy and irresponsibly handled Kerberos. I was blamed for the crash and I couldn’t say anything. After a few weeks of being unable to leave my apartment even to walk Atlas without people staring, I took the settlement money I’d got from the crash and came here. Been here ever since."

“You are a warrior,” Keith whispers.

“I dunno about that. Yesterday was the three year anniversary of the crash. I thought…I thought I was okay, but then I went to sleep and—” he trails off, voice failing him.

“You are a warrior,” Keith repeats, his certainty unflinching. His conviction is gripping. “To the Galra, scars are a sign of honor—of bravery—of _survival_. Your body has endured, and it is beautiful.”

Goosebumps rise across Shiro’s arm, his eyes watering again. It’s more than Shiro has cried in two years, and he’s helpless to stop the slow flow of tears he can feel spilling down his cheeks. He’s never heard a single person talk about his arm—or lack thereof—with any kind of reverence. It’s always been spoken about with sorrow and pity. As if people look at him and only see what he lost.

Keith isn’t looking at him like that.

There is so much Shiro wants to say, least of all thank you. He can’t seem to find the words , and can’t seem to express just how deeply Keith’s words have touched him. Thankfully Keith doesn’t seem bothered by his silence. 

He pulls his hand back, but only to reach for the package of Oreos. Slowly he slides it back across the table to Shiro, his smile tentative.

“Thanks,” Shiro whispers, meaning so much more than just for the cookies.

They sit together for a long time, working their way through the entire package and talking quietly about everything and nothing. By the time they each go back to bed, the sun is peeking up over the horizon and the Oreo package is empty.

Shiro's heart though, that's full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream about Sheith with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a normal summer day when Shiro learns Keith can smell his arousal.
> 
> Or, the chapter where Shiro loses his virginity to the sexy alien who crash landed on his farm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now has the most glorious art ever by [Toy](https://twitter.com/eventoysneedluv/status/1278850155719122944) (warning for spoilers for this chapter)

“Wasn’t sure if I’d see you today or not,” Shiro says, hearing Keith’s approach. Then again, Shiro doesn’t need to be able to see him to know the sound of the loose floorboard in the hallway. With his back still turned Shiro grabs the spare coffee mug he left out and fills it to the brim with freshly brewed coffee. He made a full pot a few hours back and slowly worked his way through the entire thing. He eventually made a second not twenty minutes earlier, unsure if Keith would resurface or sleep the day away after staying up half the night with Shiro.

Keith grunts in response. Shiro’s not entirely sure grunts can have intonation but if they can, today’s grunt sounds even grumpier than usual. Thankfully, Shiro is more than prepared.

“Made it extra strong today too,” Shiro tells him, turning around to hand off the mug. Sure enough, Keith looks even more sleep-rumpled than usual. There’s a line of dried drool on his chin and he’s wearing his tank top on backwards and inside out. He’s adorable.

Keith grabs it like he’s dying and the mug holds his salvation, cradling the large mug between his eyes and closing his eyes as he inhales the steam rising from it. Shiro knows he’s staring but he can’t seem to stop, eyes riveted to the way Keith’s pretty mouth looks when he opens it—curling his lips around the edge of the mug and gulping down huge mouthfuls of hot liquid. 

It makes Shiro long for his own mug of coffee just to have something to do with his hand but since he already drank the entire first pot, it’s probably better if he doesn’t test the limits on human caffeine consumption.

“Good?” Shiro asks, already knowing the answer.

Keith grunt is softer this time, eyes remaining shut as he takes another sip. There’s a reverence in the way Keith holds the mug to his lips that make Shiro’s clothes feel two sizes too small. 

After a scant hour and a half of sleep, Atlas had eventually woke him up demanding to be fed. Once he’d done that Shiro had simply stayed awake despite his exhaustion—mind racing. He fed the animals, tidied up the living room and kitchen, did an extra load of laundry since they were going through twice as many towels now, and then puttered around waiting for Keith to wake up. The longer Keith took to wake up the more nervous Shiro let himself become, afraid that last night had been some sort of fever dream or something. He’d told Keith things he’d never told anyone else—things he’d never _wanted_ to tell anyone else, like the time he was thirteen and asked a boy to dance for the first time, or how he used to keep lucky pennies under his pillow, or how he hadn’t been able to make his grandma’s iced tea for two years after she died.

Shiro had never even dreamed that there could be a person alive with whom sharing his secrets would feel more freeing than keeping them buried, but something about Keith makes Shiro want to open up—makes him want to trust. He feels ridiculous and sixteen all over again. Except that’s not true, because even at sixteen Shiro had never felt as tongue tied and fluttery as he does when Keith is around.

He knows it’s impossible—that Keith is never going to stay with him—not when he spent so much of his life fighting to get to Earth. There’s so much out there for Keith to explore, and Shiro would never be selfish enough to try and keep him here—or delusional enough to dream Keith would _want_ to stay. All the same, Shiro isn’t a strong enough man to deny that he likes Keith. He likes him in a way he has never liked anyone.

More than that, Shiro wants him in a way he’s never wanted anyone.

“Are you hungry?” Shiro chokes out, turning around to hide his half-hard dick and the flush working up his cheeks. 

If this is how his friends and classmates used to feel in high school, it was no wonder they couldn't get shit done. The sight of Keith’s strong arms and tiny waist is making Shiro feel, well, really horny.

Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, or the pound of sugar he ingested in the middle of the night, or post-panic attack stupor, or even that Keith’s the first man Shiro’s really been around since his accident. Even as he thinks over the possibilities, he knows none of them are the truth. They might all be part of that truth, sure, but they’re not the thing—they’re not the reason Shiro’s heart is racing and his palms are sweating. Keith is. Keith with his piercing eyes and unrelenting gaze and matter-of-fact demeanor. Keith who has seen what Shiro’s seen and knows what he knows.

Keith who—who is _touching Shiro’s hip._

Without a second thought, Shiro turns into the touch.

“What—” but his words are cut off as Keith surges up onto tiptoes to press his lips to Shiro’s. It’s all enthusiasm and no finesse, but then again Shiro’s one to talk since his last kissing partner was Bobby O’Brien when he got drunk on his twenty-first birthday.

“You are not returning the kissing,” Keith says, pulling back with a frown. He drops his hands to the side, looking equal parts disappointed and confused.

“I, uh—you surprised me is all,” Shiro breathes, still trying to piece together what exactly is happening. 

Keith blinks. “I thought this was what you desired.”

“Oh my fucking god, wait. Can you read minds?” Shiro asks, stomach dropping at the very idea. He’s not sure exactly what thoughts he’s had about Keith, but he’s sure at least twenty-five percent of them have been more than a little salacious. Probably more. Especially this morning. 

It’s as if Keith being nice to Shiro last night flipped the switch in his brain from _I like this person_ to _holy shit I really like this person_ which also apparently activated the horniest part of Shiro’s brain. 

“No, why? Keith asks, still looking uncertain. “Do humans possess the ability?”

“No. Shit, no we can’t,” Shiro says, heart still racing. “But wait, if you can’t read minds then what made you kiss me? I thought I was being discreet about well—" but he trails off, unwilling to say _about wanting to have sex with you_ out loud.

“Your heart rate is elevated, as it is most times I am near,” Keith offers, and Shiro forgets how to breathe. He’d completely forgotten Keith mentioning his heightened hearing. Which means every time Keith made his heart go pitter patter, Keith could _hear_ it.

Shiro nearly drops dead on the spot from embarrassment. 

“Oh my god.”

“Also the smell,” Keith adds, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“The…the smell?” Shiro croaks, leaning back against the kitchen counter so he doesn't just fall to the floor.

“I will assume that it is not a human trait to smell arousal?” Keith ventures.

Shiro shakes his head, his heart thundering erratically in his chest.. 

“The Galra have exceptional hearing and sense of smell. It’s what makes my people such excellent hunters. But we…also use these skills in other areas. For example, they are most advantageous when looking to attract a potential partner. We can sense physical compatibility by the alignment of heartbeats and the change in pheromones. There’s also a noticeable tang to arousal so that we may know when our partner wishes to proceed with the intercourse.”

Shiro’s soul nearly leaves his body. “You can _smell_ that I’m aroused?”

“Of course,” Keith says, as if it’s perfectly normal. “I was not sure at first. You smelled this way so often around me that I at first thought it was a uniquely human scent. Or just something that’s you, but there are times when you relaxed and it would fade. It is most strong when I wear this shirt. Do you enjoy me in this shirt?”

He plucks at the loose cotton and Shiro's eyes are riveted to the way it flutters, a little glimpse of purple stripes at his sides visible.

“I...yes. Um, but you—oh my god," Shiro breathes.

“You are distressed.”

“I’m mortified,” Shiro groans, slamming a hand over his face.

“Mortified but still aroused?” Keith asks, because he can smell that. Of course he can smell that. 

“Yes,” Shiro admits, breathing between the gap in his fingers, because there's no point in denying what Keith clearly knows to be the truth.

“I am confused,” Keith confesses, and it’s the hint of hesitance in his voice that has Shiro dropping his hand. "You look unhappy. But...but you smell like you desire me."

“I’m just embarrassed,” Shiro admits softly, “That you can smell that I was, that I was—horny.”

“I am afraid I do not understand why this is bad. I am flattered. You enjoy looking at me. I enjoy looking at you too.”

Shiro flushes. “Oh.”

“On Daibazaal I was not _desirable_ to most. I am small for a Galra and my skin is not like theirs. But you…you look at me and I can smell how much you like it. It is,” Keith pauses, weighing his words. “I enjoy it.”

“You’re so beautiful,” Shiro whispers.

Keith’s eyes fly up to his. “You believe me beautiful?”

Shiro nods, forgetting his embarrassment as he reaches out to ghost the tips of his fingers across Keith’s cheek. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

Keith’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, a low purr rumbling from his chest as Shiro's fingers graze over his smooth skin. “I wish to proceed with the intercourse with you.”

Shiro’s vision tunnels, dick going from half-interested to hard faster than the speed of light. “Holy shit, Keith.”

“Do you not wish this too? I thought…you smell—”

“I do,” Shiro interrupts, his embarrassment dwarfed only by the desire to reassure Keith. “I do.”

“Then I do not understand,” Keith says, the low purring sound dwindling.

Shiro takes a slow deep breath through his nose, realizing there is not way forward without explaining his inexperience. 

“I’ve, uh…never done this before. You know…sex,” Shiro whispers, cheeks heating at the confession.

He puffs up his cheeks with air and closes his eyes, waiting for the inevitable disappointment or shock. He knows it's unusual for someone his age to still be a virgin. When Keith doesn't immediately respond Shiro cracks his opens to find Keith merely watching him.

“I am afraid that I still do not understand what is the problem,” Keith says, lips quirked adorably. “Is this an Earth thing?”

“Uh, yes? I guess. Maybe. I dunno, what do the Galra think of virginity?” Shiro asks, barely able to get the question out without blushing. 

Shiro is a grown man and he knows that sex is nothing to be embarrassed about. But it doesn’t change the fact that growing up with his grandparents he hadn’t exactly felt comfortable talking about it, and his lack of experience has given him very little opportunity to talk about it with anyone beside his therapist. People used to take one look at him and simply assume that because he was objectively attractively and successful—and a man—that he’d had sex. Shiro never corrected them. Not because he was embarrassed about being a virgin, but because it just wasn’t anyone else’s business whether he’d ever fucked or been fucked. Not unless he actually wanted to fuck the person in question and he’d never got far enough with anyone for it to come up.

But it’s coming up now, and even though he’s perfectly aware that virginity is a social construct used to police other people’s bodies through purity culture and shame, it doesn’t change the fact that Shiro’s inexperience makes him feel unequipped to deal with what’s happening.

“Virginity,” Keith repeats. “This is unfamiliar to me.”

If possible, Shiro’s cheeks flush deeper. “It’s when you’ve never had sex. A lot of people think that it’s a big deal to lose it.”

“How do you lose it?”

“You know, _having sex_ ,” Shiro mumbles. He hates himself for how embarrassed he feels. He knows its stupid.

“Yes, intercourse. But it cannot be lost; it must be given with consent. Unless your biology is very different.”

“Not that different,” Shiro chokes out. “Just…sometimes humans think it’s special is all—the first time you have sex. And it’s, uh…I suppose it’s atypical to not have done it by my age. I just thought you should know because, uh—I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I can teach you,” Keith offers. “If you wish.”

“Oh,” Shiro breathes, his dick definitely interested in the offer. 

Shiro thinks it over. Shiro hasn’t been locked in a tower saving himself for marriage—hell, he doesn’t even care if he ever gets married even if he does find someone. All he’s ever wanted was for things to feel right. But, he’s spent a lifetime waiting and nothing came close to feeling right because Shiro’s always been a perfectionist—needing to know how things will end before they begin. The smart thing to do would be to say no, because he knows eventually Keith will leave—that this isn’t some kind of promise for forever.

Except, Shiro’s tired of being smart.

He’s tired of being responsible and planning things out. Besides, when Keith does eventually fix his ship and leave, the one being left behind will be Shiro, and he can deal with any hurt feelings or potentially wounded hearts later. He’s dealt with worse. Shiro’s strong. He likes Keith and Keith likes him, and maybe it’s reckless and selfish, but if he wants to have sex with a gorgeous alien then he damn well should be able to.

“I definitely want,” Shiro says, shocked at his own confession.

Keith’s smile is warm and pleased, and just this side of self-satisfied. It makes the heat pool low in Shiro’s gut.

Before Shiro can do or say something stupid to ruin the moment, he surges forward at the same time Keith does, their lips crashing together. It’s less tentative this time and a little more desperate. Their teeth clack together and Shiro’s not sure if that’s his fault or Keith’s and quite frankly he doesn’t care. Especially not when Keith’s hands—his beautiful, perfect hands—find their way to Shiro’s hips.

“Jesus Christ,” Shiro groans, unsure if Keith is just an excellent kisser or it’s just been that long since he got this close to anyone. Probably both, if he’s being honest with himself.

“My name is Keith,” he deadpans, pulling out of the kiss.

Shiro’s too turned on to laugh, and too busy trying not to shoot off his load when Keith’s dexterous fingers move from Shiro’s hips to the front of his tummy, shimmying their way beneath the hem of his tank top. The second his calloused fingers graze across Shiro’s bare skin he’s sure he sees stars.

“I definitely know your name,” Shiro breathes, proud of himself for stringing a complete sentence together after being kissed like _that_.

There’s nothing tentative in the way Keith touches him. He’s clearly got experience as his hands glide up Shiro’s side and his nails drag over Shiro’s nipples, and it doesn’t even occur to Shiro to be jealous. Whatever Keith’s past may be he’s with Shiro right now, touching Shiro, wants to have sex _with Shiro_. That’s all that matters.

“You may say my name. I enjoy it.”

“Keith,” Shiro says, pleased to have something he’s good at, even if it only involves speaking. 

The same low rumble sounds in Keith’s chest as he draws his hands down, fingers digging into Shiro’s flesh. Shiro isn’t sure if he wants to come or cry. The sensation of deep pressure across his abdomen is equal parts erotic and soothing, and Shiro never wants Keith to stop touching him. Shiro’s so overcome with the desire to give Keith better access, he reaches back to grab his top behind his neck and yank it off with his one hand before he can really think about all the scars he’s putting on display. He was shirtless the day he rescued Keith too but this is different.

“Oh, uh the crash—it was….there are scars,” Shiro whispers, swallowing tightly.

One time he’d gone to a club one time not long after moving to the farm. Drove two hours to get to a gay club, didn’t let himself drink since he had to drive home, and worked up the courage to dance. His partner had looked elated, until realizing that beneath Shiro’s leather jacket there was a missing arm and a host of scars. On a logical level Shiro _knows_ that guy was an asshole, but it doesn't make the memory any less painful.

It doesn’t make the fear of rejection in this moment any less visceral.

“Vrundeg,” Keith whispers, sending a shiver up Shiro’s spine. 

“What?”

“Vrundeg,” Keith repeats. “It is a Galran word that means—” he pauses as if thinking. “You do not possess the word. English is not as beautiful as Galran, less nuanced. It means _of the stars_ but to the Galra, who love them….it means perfect.”

 _Perfect_. Shiro’s never felt less than.

“Vrundeg,” Keith says a third time, with such conviction Shiro believes him. 

As if to prove his point, Keith drops his hands and replaces them with his mouth, mapping his way across the jagged scars that crisscross Shiro’s chest and stomach. He doesn’t balk at the scar tissue, but rather seeks it out—lips following by his tongue as if Shiro’s scar is something desirable.

It’s all Shiro can do not to openly weep. It feels _so good_. Even in his late night fantasies where he imagined finding a man who didn’t mind his scars, it never once occurred to him that anyone else might think them beautiful. 

Keith’s mouth travel’s lower, tongue dipping into the hollow of Shiro’s belly button as his hands find purchase at Shiro’s hips. He knows what’s coming when Keith’s fingers slip inside the waistband—nails running against delicate skin. Knowing what’s coming doesn’t make it any less overwhelming to watch Keith strip him bare—removing his jeans and boxers in one go—and leaving Shiro standing in the middle of the kitchen in broad daylight in absolutely nothing with Keith still kneeling at his feet.

“You are large. Is this typical for humans?” Keith asks, cupping Shiro’s dick in his hand and looking at it curiously.

Shiro shakes his head then realizes Keith is looking at his dick not his face and words are necessary.

“No, I’m, uh….my dick is not typical,” he chokes out, nearly coming at the light of his dick cradled in Keith’s hand.

It’s not a complete lie. Shiro’s dick is big. Maybe not _Guinness Book of World Records_ big, but Keith doesn’t need to know that. If Shiro wants to impress him with a baby white lie, it’s not that big of a deal.

Without warning Keith leans forward and licks a drop of precome off the tip. “It is salty.”

“Yeah,” Shiro groans, using all his self-control not to roll his hips in a pathetic attempt to get his dick closer to Keith’s mouth again.

“I enjoy it,” Keith says, as if he’s talking about dinner.

It’s such a Keith thing to say that Shiro huffs out a laugh. “I’m glad.”

Keith grins, eyes twinkling as Keith opens his mouth and darts his tongue out once more and lifts Shiro’s dick. This time instead of lapping at the tip he starts at the base, pressing his tongue firmly against it and dragging it up across the vein on the sensitive underside.

Words definitely fail Shiro after that, especially when Keith begins to palm his balls and suckle at his tip. He’s clearly trying to make Shiro feel good , but he’s exploring too, and it makes Shiro feel less nervous. Keith’s clearly got experience in some ways, but he’s never been with a human, and his eager curiosity is as hot as it is sweet.

His dick is buried in Keith’s mouth when Keith’s fingers move behind his balls, sliding into the crease of his ass. There’s absolutely no stopping the desperate noise he makes at that, spreading his feet wide.

Keith’s gaze moves up, eyes on Shiro as he does it again. The reaction is much the same and before Shiro can even warn Keith, he’s coming.

“Fuck,” Shiro exhales, trying to pull back so he doesn’t choke Keith, but Keith is having none of it, digging his hands into Shiro’s thighs and sucking harder as Shiro’s orgasm wracks his body. He sucks and sucks until Shiro’s pretty sure Keith might be trying to suck his soul out.

He doesn’t stop until every drop of come has been milked from Shiro’s body, finally letting Shiro’s now softened dick fall from his mouth.

“Wow,” Shiro breathes, unable to say anything more eloquent. 

“Humans come very quickly,” Keith observes, licking a stray drop of come from the corner of his lips.

Shiro’s too blissed out from the best blow job he’s ever had to be embarrassed. “I can usually last longer when I touch myself. Just…it’s different when it’s someone else I guess, sorry.”

“You apologize often,” Keith says.

“Sorry,” Shiro replies automatically, earning him a curious stare from Keith. 

“I am very satisfied. Your heart rate increased when I took you in my mouth. It was pleasurable for me.”

“Okay, good. That’s…that’s good,” Shiro says, trusting Keith to tell him the truth. “I’d really like to touch you too, if that’s okay.”

“Yes,” Keith says, rising from the floor. “I would very much like to proceed with the intercourse now.”

It’s only then that Shiro notices the front of Keith’s joggers are substantially tented. Keith said he enjoyed blowing Shiro, and it had definitely looked like it, but seeing him so hard from having Shiro’s dick in his mouth makes Shiro’s dick twitch with interest already.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?” Shiro asks.

“Oh, do humans not—what is the word,” Keith says, more to himself than Shiro as he yanks his own tank top off and throws it to the floor. 

It’s not the first time Shiro’s seen him without a shirt on, but it’s more arousing this time, the intention behind the bare skin entirely different. This isn’t Shiro catching an illict glimpse of Keith’s lithe, muscled torso and purple stripes, but Keith exposing himself for Shiro to see—to touch.

“Do humans not penetrate each other?” Keith asks, shoving his joggers down to expose his own dick. It’s a little shorter than Shiro’s though not by much, which shocks him. It’s also thick, much thicker than his own, especially at the base which looks swollen now. Shiro’s mouth waters.

“Wait, what?” Shiro blurts, his brain slowly catching up to the words.

“Penetrate,” Keith repeats, forming a circle with his fingers and then putting his other fingers inside the hole. “Like this.”

“Yes,” Shiro chokes out, his ears ringing. “We do that. We fuck.”

“Wonderful, then I would like to fuck,” Keith says, looking pleased with himself.

Shiro nearly trips over himself to get his hand on Keith. “Yes. Yes. Let’s do that. Right now.”

Keith grins. “So you will fuck me?”

Shiro nods, his dick hardening again in record speed. He’s not sure he’s ever had such a quick refractory period. “Yes, I want to fuck you. A lot.”

“Then we desire the same thing,” Keith says, reaching out for Shiro’s hand and linking their fingers. “Come.”

Shiro doesn’t need to be told twice, nearly tripping over his feet to follow Keith. At first Shiro thinks they’re headed to his own room but instead of turning right, Keith turns left, moving towards Shiro’s couch. He’s glad Atlas is outside napping on the porch so he doesn’t have to worry about being interrupted if Keith wants to do it somewhere without a door.

“How do you want to do this?” Shiro asks, pushing down his resurgence of nerves. 

“Your penis will penetrate me and then—”

“Not that part,” Shiro interrupts, face flushing with heat. “I know that. I meant, um, how do you want to lay or—wait, we need lube.”

“What is lube?” Keith asks.

“Lubricant. It comes in a tube usually, you know to lubricate your, uh…the inside of your ass,” Shiro says, proud of himself for not blushing further. “It makes it easier for penetration so nothing tears or hurts. Feels good too.”

“Oh,” Keith says, head cocked to the side. “Humans do not produce their own?”

Shiro blinks, voice cracking. “No, do you?”

“Of course,” Keith says, reaching for Shiro’s hand. “Do you want to feel?”

Shiro nods his head quickly, unprepared for Keith to grab his hand and bring it around to his ass. Experimentally, he glides his fingers over the swell of Keith’s pert ass and into the warm crease, nearly biting off the end of his tongue when he probes at Keith’s hole and finds it loose and slick. It takes a second for Shiro to realize the moaning sound he hears is coming from his own lips.

“When a Galra is aroused, their body prepares for them. I am prepared for you,” Keith says, with complete casualness. 

It’s all Shiro can do not to moan again. “My body doesn’t do this.”

Keith looks almost pensive. “Then I will require the lube to penetrate you next time.”

All the blood rushes to Shiro’s dick. _Next time_. Keith’s going to be the death of him.

“You’re incredible,” Shiro whispers, cupping Keith’s ass cheek and pulling him closer. He presses a kiss to the top of his head before pulling back.

Color rises high on Keith’s cheekbones. It’s the first time Shiro’s seen anything close to a blush on Keith. He likes it.

“Thank you,” Keith murmurs, wiggling his hips back against Shiro’s hand. A bit of the slick liquid drips out of his ass and down his thigh, coating Shiro’s fingers. Shiro swipes it up, rubbing it between his fingers. It’s thick and warm and smooth, and Shiro wants to fuck Keith so bad it almost hurts. In his entire twenty-nine years of life, he’s never been so turned on.

“Is it always like this?” Shiro asks, pulling Keith closer and letting his finger dip all the way back inside. Keith’s not just slicked up, his muscles are also so loose that Shiro adds two more fingers without even trying. 

There’s a sharp inhale as Keith shakes his head, pressing his ass back on Shiro’s fingers. “I am not usually this wet.”

“Oh,” Shiro breathes, unsure what to make of that. “So then—”

“I enjoy when you touch me,” Keith finishes. 

It’s what Shiro suspected, but to hear it spoken aloud makes arousal and pride pulse through Shiro’s veins.

“I enjoy touching you too,” Shiro confesses, some of his nervousness fading away in the face of Keith’s honesty. It’s hard to be worried about screwing things up when Keith’s natural response to Shiro is _this_.

“I would like to do the fucking now,” Keith says, voice cracking a little as he reaches back and shoves Shiro’s fingers in deeper.

Shiro nearly passes out. 

“ _Okay_. Yeah. Yes.”

“Good,” Keith echoes, maneuvering them closer to the couch. Without warning he places his hands on Shiro’s chest and gives him a gentle push, causing Shiro’s fingers to slip from Keith’s ass as he falls back with a grunt onto the couch.

Shiro’s too surprised and horny to do more than stare as Keith’s knees hit the couch, then he spreads his legs crawling up Shiro’s body. Everything about his naked form is taut and lean, and Shiro wants to burn this memory into his brain forever.

“You enjoy my body,” Keith says, coming to a stop at Shiro’s thighs. He’s so wet, slick smears on Shiro’s legs as Keith settles his ass down on them.

“Yes,” Shiro agrees. “I enjoy everything about you.”

There’s a small flicker of surprise on Keith’s face seconds before he’s surging forward, placing his hands on Shiro’s face as he kisses him again. Shiro is helpless to do anything but moan into the kiss, his hand scrambling to find purchase on Keith’s tiny waist—fingers digging into tender flesh—as Keith deepens the kiss. It’s forceful and desperate, and Shiro can barely breathe, can barely think. Every thought in his brain tunnels down to the way Keith’s lips feel gliding against his own and the heady sensation of someone else’s tongue in his mouth.

He’s so lost in the way Keith kisses that it takes his brain a few seconds to register the shifting of Keith’s hips and a hand on his dick. By the time he does, Keith’s already sinking down onto Shiro’s dick until Shiro’s buried to the hilt and his hips are flush against Keith’s ass.

Shiro makes a choked-off sound, fighting back the urge to actually scream. If jerking off felt good this is ten times better. He’s suddenly unsure why he wasn’t having sex before if it feels like _this_. Keith’s body is so tight and warm, slick dripping out of him and spilling onto the couch in a mess Shiro will definitely need to scrub out later, but which is at this very moment exhilarating. 

Living on a farm, Shiro’s used to being dirty. That’s nothing compared to this kind of dirty. As Keith rises and falls, they get messier and stickier, and Shiro absolutely revels in it, sneaking his hand between their bodies to grip the base of his dick as Keith moves—his hand soon covered too. Shiro doesn’t just like it, he _loves_ it. It’s filthy and a little primal, and the wet smacking sounds that fill the room as Keith picks up the pace are branded into Shiro’s brain.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” Keith says, a bit breathless as he lifts himself up and then slides down again. 

The pressure on his dick is incredible and Shiro definitely forgets to breathe.

“Yeah?” Shiro gasps, unsure what to do with his hand now that it’s so sticky. He wants so desperately to keep touching Keith.

“You cannot hear mine but perhaps, you can feel it,” Keith whispers, pausing midair with Shiro’s dick half-buried inside of him as he reaches for Shiro’s hand.

“It’s sticky,” Shiro says feel a bit stupid. Keith must know considering where Shiro’s hand just was.

“Yes,” Keith agrees, his long fingers curling around Shiro’s wrist as he brings it up to his chest and lays it palm down. Keith’s impossibly still as he waits, eyes focused on Shiro—but the trembling of his thighs and his heaving chest give away more than his words have.

Shiro allows his eyes to flutter shut as he presses his fingers firmly against Keith’s chest, willing his own erratic heartbeat to slow so he can better focus on Keith’s. There’s a pause and then Keith drags his hand to the left a few inches, just enough that Shiro suddenly becomes aware of the racing thrum of Keith’s heart. Shiro’s eyes fly open as he counts the beat, marveling at its swiftness.

“Because of me?” Shiro whispers.

Keith nods, dropping down so hard his ass slaps against Shiro’s hips.

“God, I’m not going to last,” Shiro groans, hand still splayed over Keith’s chest.

There’s no response, at least not in words. There’s a change in Keith’s pacing though, his hips beginning to rock erratically. Trying to match the thrusting, Shiro arches his hips, less placid this time as he finds his footing.

“Feels so good,” Shiro murmurs, his entire body strung out. On a purely objective level Shiro knew sex would feel good, but he hadn’t know it could feel like _this_. 

He likes the way sex feels—the erotic slide of their naked flesh gliding together, sweat-soaked and sticky with absolutely nothing between them.

He likes the way sex smells—the heady, musky scent of arousal filling the room as they each come closer to their tipping point.

He likes the way sex sounds—the heavy breathing and the slapping of skin as things get desperate.

He likes everything about sex. Especially with Keith.

Keith is more controlled than Shiro, but there’s a flush across his chest and his hair is sticking to his forehead as he rides Shiro’s dick. He looks relaxed and blissed out, and the intimacy of it makes Shiro’s heart do a funny flip flop. He might not know Keith enough to think he’s in love with him, but he can’t deny the seed of affection that's been planted in his heart. With every rise and fall of Keiths body, every little breathy moan he makes and the purrs rattling out of his chest that affection grows. 

Wherever Keith goes later, Shiro knows he won't ever forget him. 

“Touch me,” Keith says, somewhere between a command and a plea.

Shiro complies. Now is not a time for melancholy or thinking too far ahead. Now is the time for pleasure and fun, and for taking advantage of every second he gets to spend with Keith before he leaves. If their time will be short, then Shiro is damn well going to make the most of it.

“How do you like to be touched?” Shiro asks, his palm sliding downward over the flat of Keith’s belly until it’s resting on his hip beside Keith’s dick.

Keith’s movements slow so that his hips are barely moving as he takes Shiro’s hand and helps him curl it around his dick just above the knot. Shiro thinks that will be it but then Keith covers Shiro’s hand with his own and squeezes until Shiro’s gripping him firmly as he moves his palm.

“Like this,” Keith murmurs.

Desperate to see, Shiro lifts his neck so much it strains, eager to watch the way Keith’s dick looks sliding between their hands. With every upstroke, Keith’s dick slips through, pale lavender foreskin stretching to reveal the glistening cockhead.

“Does this feel good?” Shiro asks, his own dick so hard it feels like it might explode.

“Yes,” Keith whimpers, mouth falling open on a soft moan. It’s the first sound he’s made like that, and Shiro wants to hear it again.

“You’re so pretty,” Shiro praises, waiting until their hands are gliding down to inch them even lower so that their hands are wrapped around the swollen knot at the base of Keith’s dick. The sound Keith makes is nothing short of pornographic—wanton and needy as he collapses forward, moving his hands away from Shiro’s dick to and bracing them either side of Shiro’s head.

“Do that again,” Keith begs, Shiro’s dick slipping from Keith’s ass as he desperately rolls his hips.

“Okay,” Shiro breathes, unsure if he possesses the ability to make his hand do what his brain wants with a panting Keith hovering just inches from his face. He does manage it though, giving the base of Keith’s dick a gentle squeeze. The sound Keith makes is nothing short of a growl, slamming his mouth into Shiro’s and kissing him with such intensity Shiro can barely breathe.

“Harder,” Keith says between kisses, thrusting his hips into Shiro’s hand.

Shiro obeys, massaging the knot in his hand. It’s heavy and thick, the flesh warm. With every stroke and squeeze, Keith becomes a little more wild—a loud purr rumbling from his chest as he sucks Shiro’s bottom lip into his mouth hard. It's impossible not to feel a swell of pride that he’s the one making Keith feel good, that it’s his hand making Keith lose control.

Experimentally, he wraps his fingers around the base as much as he can and then begins to jerk his wrist the same way he would if he was stroking his own dick, but keeping the jerks harder and shorter so that the only thing he’s touching is Keith’s knot. This time the growl Keith makes is almost a howl as he shoves his face into Shiro’s, not so much kissing him as breathing into his mouth. The purring is thunderous now—so loud Shiro can practically feel it reverberating in his own chest.

“Shiro,” Keith pants, mouth open and his breath hot and heavy against Shiro’s lips.

Something about the sound of his name falling from Keith’s lips in unrestrained pleasure tips Shiro over the edge. Dimly he’s aware of his own orgasm, of the increased stickiness between them. He crashes his lips against Keith and kisses him to stop from screaming as he picks up the pace now, stroking Keith so hard and fast his wrist is getting sore.

It only takes another ten seconds or so before Keith’s entire body shudders, his dick spasming in Shiro’s grip as he comes across Shiro’s stomach, painting him in thick streaks of come. All the while Keith keeps on kissing him, his body trembling as he drops his weight onto Shiro and moves his hands into Shiro’s hair. Somewhere along the way the kiss turns gentle. Shiro is helpless to do anything but hold Keith as close as possible as he lets Keith set the pace, as enamored with the kissing as he was with the fucking. He now strongly suspects Keith could do anything to him and he’d probably like it.

When Keith pulls out of the kiss, his hair is sticking up in every direction, his cheeks are flushed a deep plum and his lips are kiss-swollen—he’s beautiful. He pulls back, sitting on Shiro’s hips and running a finger through the mess on his stomach.

“Was the intercourse satisfying?” he asks.

Shiro’s too surprised by the question to control his reaction, a half-laugh bubbling out of his chest. The tips of Keith’s ears twitch as he cocks his head, looking confused.

“Yes,” Shiro says quickly, eager to make sure there are no misunderstandings. “It was incredible. You are incredible.”

The color on Keith’s cheeks deepen as he fights back a smile. “Good. Then I wish to fuck you now.”

Shiro can’t help it, he laughs again. Keith is fun, and sex with him is no exception.

“Give me ten minutes to recover and you can do anything you want to me.”

Keith’s answering look is nothing short of wicked and Shiro groans, pretty sure he won’t need ten minutes after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream about Sheith with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe there are only a few chapters left. I've been really awed and humbled by the love this fic has been getting so to everyone reading along and commenting thank you I can't tell you how much it's meant to me. Writing this fic really kept me going over the last few months and seeing people love it has meant so much.

Keith, it turns out, is nearly insatiable. His stamina leaves Shiro exhausted to the bone and sore in places he didn’t even know could be sore and he loves it. 

After a lifetime of being responsible, there’s an unmistakable thrill in letting the weeds go in favor of having copious amounts of sex with Keith. The animals still get fed, but all of his other responsibilities around the farm are laid by the wayside in favor of fucking. Every time the little voice in his brain pipes up and reminds him this is only temporary, Shiro’s quick to silence it by pressing Keith against the nearest countertop or wall and kissing him until Keith’s purring into his mouth and trying to climb him like a tree. 

Unable to stand the idea of being caught by Atlas, they get creative about where they get frisky. After breakfast they wedge themselves into the too-small shower downstairs, which is so cramped the most they can manage are mutual hand jobs. It’s hurried and awkward and also deeply satisfying, especially when Keith takes the towel after and insists on drying Shiro off—careful to gather all the water droplets from the backs of his thighs and in between his shoulder blades. It does nothing to help Shiro stop having feelings.

The next day after lunch when Atlas goes outside to chase squirrels, Keith bends him over the kitchen table and fucks Shiro’s thighs while whispering things in Galran that Shiro can’t understand but that make him ache with longing. Keith’s hands are everywhere—roaming over Shiro’s back and down his spine, fondling his ass and gripping his thighs while he fucks between Shiro’s clenched legs over and over until Shiro’s coming so hard he nearly blacks out.

After supper when Atlas naps on the couch, Keith twines his fingers with Shiro’s and drags him down the hallway to his own room where he proceeds to strip himself naked then lay down on the bed, begging Shiro to touch him. And touch him Shiro does, mapping the contours of Keith’s body as if he’s trying to memorize them. He is.

It’s like living in a bubble—a beautiful, happy, sex-filled bubble. Never in his entire life has Shiro felt so wanted. Keith isn’t just a voracious lover during sex, he’s sweet after—cuddling close to Shiro and soothing his rough hands over Shiro’s chest or up the side of his neck before tangling them in his hair. He touches Shiro as if he can’t stop and after years of not being touched, Shiro’s embarrassed to admit how desperately he desires it. He’s not sure if Keith is picking up on the way he responds to it, or if perhaps Keith is just naturally so tactile. All he knows is that if Keith is in his vicinity then Keith's hands are on him and it feels amazing.

Less than a week after starting whatever it is that’s happening between then, Shiro forgets what it’s like to exist without having Keith’s body touching his in some way—a hand on his back, sitting side to side on the couch as Shiro introduces him to old re-runs of _Star Trek_ , arms and legs wrapped around him like a human octopus after sex. 

Keith touches Shiro, and Shiro never wants him to stop. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.

That end comes after six days of doing very little but fucking and talking, when Shiro realizes that the only thing left in his house to eat is eggs.

* * *

“It’s scrambled eggs again,” Shiro announces when Keith ambles into the kitchen in nothing but Shiro’s oversized sweats hanging so low on his hips that the swell of his ass and the dark curls above his dick are on full display. They’d ended up fucking and falling asleep in Keith’s bed last night with Atlas asleep on the pillow behind him. Shiro’s not sure if Keith’s choice of clothing is purposeful since Shiro had left his sweats there, making breakfast in nothing but his boxers this morning, or if Keith is still too tired to tell which bottoms are Shiro’s or his own. Either way, Shiro’s not complaining about the view.

Keith looks good in everything—and nothing—but the sight of Shiro’s too-big clothes hanging low on his tiny waist definitely makes it hard for Shiro to not burn the eggs.

The response Keith gives is exactly as expected—a grunt as he shuffles into the room. Atlas perks up at his arrival, pausing mid-chomp to wag his tail at Keith before turning his snout back in his bowl of food. 

Rather than dropping down into his chair like usual, Keith moves across the kitchen to stand behind Shiro and shove his face into Shiro’s back, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“Good morning to you too,” Shiro whispers, shivering as Keith spreads his palms wide over Shiro’s stomach. The tips of his fingers dip beneath Shiro’s boxers, pinkies resting against the sharp V of his own hips. There’s nothing inherently sexual in the touch, which somehow makes it all the more powerful, and Shiro can literally feel the way his heart rate slows and his muscles relax with Keith pressed so closely. Keith’s touch never wavers—it’s not hesitant or soft. It’s all-encompassing and firm, and Shiro likes the weight of him at his back and the strength in his embrace as Keith holds him tight while Shiro stirs the eggs just enough to cook them but not dry them out completely.

For one fleeting second, Shiro almost blurts out their need to go into town today but he bites back the words, unwilling to shatter their bubble just yet. Soon, but not yet. For now he’s content to relish in the way Keith nuzzles his warm nose in between Shiro’s shoulder blades and quietly purrs—the vibration rumbling against his back. Keith remains latched onto Shiro until he’s finished cooping the eggs and is tipping a generous helping of them onto two plates, only moving when Shiro attempt to move the food to the table.

Keith drains his entire mug of coffee before he starts on his eggs, eating them with gusto. He doesn’t complain about eating the same thing for breakfast for the fifth day in a row, but somehow Shiro still feels guilty about the lack of carbs. Keith needs a lot to eat and Shiro wants to provide for him.

“I wanted to make you pancakes but we’re out of flour. And butter. And, well—everything to be honest.”

Keith lifts his gaze, eyes unreadable. Then to Shiro’s utter surprise, he sets his fork down and pushes his eggs towards Shiro.

“Is something wrong with them?” he asks.

Keith shakes his. “You are out of food.”

“We do have eggs,” Shiro says, pointing to his own plate piled high with scrambled eggs and then Keith’s which is now halfway between them both. “Good thing about having chickens. You can never run out of eggs. We’re just out of the extras is all.”

Shiro smiles, but Keith doesn’t return the gesture. 

“I apologize,” Keith says, proceeding to push his half-full mug of coffee towards Shiro. 

“Wait, what are you apologizing for?” Shiro asks, unsure what’s happening.

“I require much food. And now you are out.”

“Oh, that’s—shit. No, Keith. No,” Shiro hurries, pushing Keith’s plate of food back across the table then his coffee. “It’s fine. I want you to eat. As much as you want. All the time. I can always get more food.”

Despite his assurance Keith looks hesitant, picking up his fork but not eating. “Your heart rate is elevated and your breathing has changed.”

_Oh._

Shiro exhales, realizing there is no playing casual or hiding his feelings when his new, whatever Keith is—they haven't given it a name—has supersonic alien hearing and can sense changes in Shiro’s heart rate and breathing patterns. It’s both a blessing and a curse. There’s something freeing in the knowledge that he can’t hide anything from Keith even if he wants to, but there’s also something about it that makes Shiro feel exposed and vulnerable in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

“It’s not because of the food. Or not in the way you think,” Shiro says, pushing his eggs around. “We have stores on Earth where you can just go buy more food whenever you need it so long as you’ve got money, and I’ve got plenty of money to buy it.”

“But you are distressed,” Keith says quietly.

Shiro almost laughs. He shouldn’t be surprised. In the short few weeks since Keith’s arrival, there’s been more than one time where it felt as if Keith could read his mind.

“I don’t really like going into town if I can help it,” Shiro says, poking his eggs again. “After the accident everywhere I went people knew my name or my face. With the missing arm and the hair I just…stuck out like a sore thumb. People either believed what the Garrison said about my crash or they wanted me to tell them whatever they thought the truth was. People want to talk to me about what space was like, and about my accident and I’m not allowed to tell anyone the goddamn truth. It’s...lonely. It’s a big part of why I moved out here. It was easier to just…not be around people when the alternative was lying. You can’t get close to people like that.”

Shiro is grateful for Keith’s patience as he shovels a bite of eggs into his mouth, trying to figure out how to articulate the rest. He chews slowly, and Keith waits.

“It’s easier out here, the people in town are kind enough. But they’re _curious_. It’s not every day an ex-space explorer who crashed a billion dollar space plane moves into your small town. I’m a bit of an oddity and the launch and crash were a big deal. It’s been years but no one’s curiosity has died down.”

Shiro shrugs, unable to explain the rest. It’s hard to put into words the way it makes his skin itch to have people stare everywhere he goes, or the way he feels like a liar being unable to share the truth of his life with anyone. It’s not that he dislikes people, and he certainly doesn’t care if there are a few people who think he’s crazy because of the space fever rumors. But the strain of living up to the image people have in their head of him because of the media is exhausting. Especially when after three years all Shiro wants to do is put his past in the past. 

It’s just been easier to just not get to know people rather than tell them a lie. Until Keith.

“Where I come from, I was different too,” Keith offers. “Different is not always easy.”

“I like your different,” Shiro says, voice low.

The words earn him a smile from Keith, and Shiro is helpless to stop the rush of pleasure it invokes in him knowing he was the cause. 

“I, too, enjoy your different,” Keith says.

Then it’s Shiro’s turn to smile. He ducks his face, trying to hide the blush that he can feel spreading across his cheeks. He’s always prided himself on being able to school his expressions when needed, but over the last few days Shiro finds he can’t hide a goddamn thing from Keith, especially not with the way Keith’s occasional praise makes him blush.

“When do we leave?” Keith asks, as if there is no question he’ll come. It makes the ridiculous fluttering in Shiro’s chest increase tenfold. So far he’s doing an absolute shit job at not getting more attached to Keith, but it’s a problem for him to deal with later.

For now, Shiro would rather focus on the _we_.

“Uh, after breakfast if you’d like. I can do the dishes and—”

“Then we have time,” Keith declares, pushing away from the table.

“Time for what?”

“Time for a shower,” Keith says plainly. Plainly enough Shiro doesn't give it a second thought.

At least not until they’ve finished eating and instead of going to shower alone, Keith takes Shiro’s hand and tugs. “You will shower with me.”

“Yes,” Shiro enthusiastically agrees, “but let's try my bathroom this time. It’s bigger.”

“As you wish,” Keith answers, letting Shiro take the lead and following him up the stairs. Atlas gives a single curious bark, but must suspect what they’re up to because he doesn't follow.

Shiro isn’t sure if Keith wants to shower or _shower_ , so he does his best to control his raging libido as Keith strips bare and tosses his clothes on the end of Shiro’s bed. It’s a herculean effort not to drag Keith to his bed and map out the planes of his body and memorize every curving purple stripe. Manage he does though, ridding himself of his own clothes and chucking them into the hamper in the corner before following Keith into the adjoining bathroom.

“Wow,” Keith breathes, dropping Shiro’s hand and spinning in circles. Shiro’s not surprised by Keith’s shock. The downstairs shower is one Shiro almost never uses and though Shiro meant to eventually remodel it, he hasn’t gotten around to it since it’s low on his priority list.

The upstairs bathroom, however, that is one of Shiro’s favorite things about the house. It’s also one of the few places he really splurged on upgrading after buying the farm. Shiro hadn’t wanted to change the structural bones of the two-story farmhouse, but he had desperately wanted to change this bathroom. What had once been decorated in hideous peach tile and floral wallpaper now houses a sleek, double-wide shower with floor-to-ceiling glass doors, black-tiled walls, and the most luxurious waterfall showerhead that a mass conglomerate cover-up payoff could buy. 

Back when he’d only been six months post-accident, showering had been one of the few routines that made Shiro feel human, and like himself. So he hadn’t spared a penny making his bathroom adaptive for his needs, including swinging shower doors, full body massage jets, waterproof wooden seats, chromatherapy lighting, and steam jets to make the shower an oasis for Shiro after a long day of hard work. It’s also helpful for reaching the parts of his body that are harder to get at with only one arm.

The shower was seventy percent therapeutic and thirty percent aesthetic, but at the moment all Shiro can think is how good it would be for sex—of how incredible Keith will look dripping wet and lit up in shades of purple.

“It’s even cooler than it looks,” Shiro tells him.

Eager to impress, he opens the shower door and steps inside to fiddle with the lights so that the dark walls are flooded in pale violet lights. Then he flips on the showerhead, switching it to rainfall, but only on the left half in case it's too much for Keith.

“This is not like the other shower,” Keith says, stepping inside slowly as if unsure what to make of the cascade of rain falling from the ceiling.

“No, it’s not,” Shiro agrees. “Right after the accident it was hard to wash myself and the phantom limb pain was…it was bad. This shower was a safe haven. Between the soft lighting, the massage jets, and the steam, it helped soothe my body and my mind. Between you and me, the luxury aspects like the built-in radio and temperature control aren’t half bad either. Plus, the rainfall jets are especially good for hard-to-reach places.”

“Is it hard to wash?” Keith asks.

Shiro blinks, somehow surprised by the question. There’s no judgment or pity, just open curiosity.

“Sometimes,” Shiro answers, even more surprised at how honest he wants to be with Keith. “I’ve gotten really good at it, and I have got a long-handled scrubber for my back. Plus the seats let me sit down to wash my feet, so it’s okay. I’ve adapted.”

Keith is quiet, as if thinking things over. Then he blurts out about the last thing Shiro ever expects to hear.

“I wish to wash you,” Keith declares.

It’s entirely unexpected but not unwanted. The opposite, if Shiro is being honest. It makes his heart stutter in his chest just thinking about the amount of intimacy and trust in the gesture, even if it’s likely only one-sided. For all Shiro knows, this is no big deal to the Galra and isn’t as deeply intimate as it feels to Shiro. 

Maybe it’s weird that this feels more revealing than losing his virginity, but it does. It’s revealing and Shiro feels more vulnerable than he has since Keith arrived. 

“If you would not enjoy it then I will not speak of it again," Keith says in response to Shiro's silence.

Shiro does want it. He wants it so much he barely knows how to put words to the desire, but he tries. For Keith.

“I would,” Shiro asserts, voice quiet but sure. “I would enjoy it very much.”

Keith whispers something, a word so quiet it's lost in the sound of the water cascading to the tile floor. Before Shiro can ask him to repeat it, Keith is grabbing Shiro’s loofah off the hook on the wall. 

“This is the body wash,” Shiro says, pointing to the dispenser on the left. “That one is shampoo and the other is conditioner.”

Shiro feels ridiculous for the way his heart begins to race as Keith adds a generous amount of soap to the loofah. Shiro steps under the water, closing his eyes and letting it run over his body. Shiro’s not hiding under the water exactly, but he does stand there letting the water pound down on his head longer than he should, trying to wash away his nervousness.

When he steps out of the water into the dry corner of the shower and blinks open his eyes, it’s to find Keith watching him with an intensity that leaves Shiro feeling utterly exposed. It’s terrifying and thrilling.

“I can wash the front,” Shiro mumbles, somehow feeling wrong-footed.

“I wish to cleanse you everywhere,” Keith says, his voice confident enough for the both of them. “If it is wanted.”

“Yeah,” Shiro nods. “It’s wanted.”

“Good,” Keith breathes, moving the loofah to Shiro’s chest and squeezing out the soap. Thick ribbons of bubbles coat his chest as Keith drags it across the breadth of it, moving the loofah in slow circles around Shiro's pectoral muscles then down his ribcage. He’s meticulous, washing every inch. When he drops to his knees, Shiro has no idea what to expect.

“Breathe,” Keith instructs.

Were it anyone else, Shiro knows he’d be fleeing with embarrassment at the idea of being caught holding his breath because someone was washing his stomach. With Keith, he finds he doesn’t quite mind. 

“Sorry, just…not used to this,” Shiro confesses, exhaling slowly as he tilts his neck down and watches as Keith sweeps the loofah over Shiro’s belly and down his hips.

“Being washed?” Keith asks, moving on to his thighs.

“Yeah,” Shiro answers. “And, uh…being touched.”

Keith’s hand stills, eyes moving up to Shiro’s face. Then to Shiro’s surprise he drops the soaped up loofah to the floor and continues washing Shiro’s legs with his bare hands—capable fingers digging into the flesh and sweeping around to wash the delicate skin at the back of his knees and down to his calves. He even washes the curve of Shiro’s ankles and the tops of his feet.

By the time Keith rises up, Shiro’s not even sure how he’s managed to stay standing. Despite his own nerves, his body feels lax and heavy in the best way.

“Thank you,” Shiro breathes.

“I am not finished,” Keith says, lathering up his hands with more soap and stepping behind Shiro.

There’s no time for Shiro to compose himself before Keith’s hands are massaging into the tight muscles in his neck and down under the curve of his shoulders. His fingers are confident and purposeful—digging into the tight muscles between his shoulder blades then down to the delicate hollow of his back where Shiro can’t reach. Down and down he goes, palms spread wide at the base of Shiro’s spine. He even spends noticeable energy washing the swell of Shiro’s ass.

There’s nothing sexual about the touch. Somehow it ruins Shiro more than if there was.

By the time Keith’s finished washing the backs of his thighs, Shiro’s entire body is trembling. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to stop it even if he tried. 

He doesn’t try.

Shiro means to thank him again, sure Keith must be done now, but then he lathers up his hands a third time, moving on to wash Shiro’s left arm. Keith’s gentle as his fingers dig into sore, overworked muscles—moving from the top of Shiro’s bicep down across the inside of his elbow and over his forearm muscles. He even tenderly washes Shiro’s wrist and palm. The last time anyone else had washed Shiro had been his sponge baths at the hospital right after his accident. The nurses had been kind, but there’d been only quick efficiency in their touches. 

Keith’s touch is something else—almost reverent. Shiro’s sure he’s imagining it, that his own clouded history regarding being touched is affecting his ability to see the current situation objectively, but it’s hard for Shiro to ignore how precious he feels under Keith’s ministrations.

Somehow, despite Keith’s thorough attention to his left arm, Shiro’s entirely unprepared for Keith to move on to the right side of his body.

A choked-off sob falls from Shiro’s throat as Keith’s hands roam over his right shoulder and the stub of what’s left of his arm. Keith touches this half of his body exactly the same as he had the left, not shying away from the thick scar tissue or the point of bone where his arm stops halfway down his bicep. He touches Shiro’s right side with the same thorough but gentle sweeps of his hands, and Shiro is undone.

There’s not a bit of Shiro that is capable of words. Thankfully Keith doesn’t expect any, rinsing his hands in the shower before sudsing them up with shampoo. Shiro drops his head back as Keith digs his fingers into Shiro’s scalp, half washing Shiro’s hair and half massaging his head. It’s one of the most blissful things Shiro has ever felt, and he ignores the lump forming in his throat as he tries to not to think about how empty this shower will feel once Keith is able to fix his ship and leave.

“Close your eyes,” Keith instructs.

Shiro obeys without question, eyes squeezed shut as Keith maneuvers him beneath the warm stream of water. Long after Shiro’s hair and body are rinsed clean, Keith continues to stroke his hands over the expanse of Shiro’s naked flesh—slow and exploratory. There’s no pretense for touching him any longer,—he’s clean,and Keith’s touch is anything but sexual in nature.

The only reason Shiro can come up with for why Keith’s fingertips are still dancing across his skin is because Keith wants them to.

“Can I wash you too?” Shiro asks, hesitant to break the moment but itching to touch.

“Yes,” Keith agrees, quick enough there’s no time for Shiro to think too much—like about what this might mean to the Galra. He could ask. He knows he could. Keith’s been nothing but honest with him from the start.

Except—except if the answer isn’t what Shiro hopes it is, then he doesn’t think he wants to know.

However short-lived his time with Keith ends up being, he wants to treasure every second of it, not worry about labels or how long they have left.

Shiro wants to appreciate every breath he takes with Keith.

Shiro wants to appreciate _Keith_. So he does, sudsing up his hand and smoothing it over Keith’s shoulder. Keith is so trusting as he closes his eyes, tipping his head forward as Shiro’s broad palm widens over the back of his neck and down the curve of his spine. He’s touched Keith so many times over the last few days he’s lost count, but this feels different—loaded in a different way.

He drags his fingers over the swirling purple at Keith’s hips—tracing his fingers across every last stripe, from the one twisted around his middle where a belly button might have been, to the ones around his upper thigh.

“You do not have stripes,” Keith says, tone giving away nothing about his meaning. 

“No,” Shiro agrees, sinking to his knees to follow the longest swirl of purple down Keith’s thigh and behind his knee.

“I do not look human,” he adds, voice so quiet this time Shiro can barely hear him over the sound of the water hitting the tile floor.

“You look like Keith,” Shiro affirms, loud enough to be sure Keith hears him. 

“Oh,” Keith whispers, a low purr sounding from his chest. It makes Shiro smile as he smooths his soapy hand down Keith’s calf and the dark hair that dusts his leg. Shiro continues even lower, fingers wrapping around Keith’s ankle, thumb snug against the ankle bone—firm enough he can feel the hint of Keith’s pulse fluttering beneath the pad of his thumb. 

The low purr continues as Shiro switches his hand to the other leg, stroking his delicate ankle and then moving his hand up. The soap is gone now, but Shiro doesn’t want to stop touching Keith, so he doesn’t—rising up to stand and pulling Keith against his chest as he rubs his hand up and down his back. If anything, the purring grows louder, even louder than the times they’ve had sex. 

There are still so many things Shiro still doesn’t know, especially in regards to where he stands with Keith. But there’s no mistaking that right now he’s making Keith feel good—that Keith is happy. It makes pride settle in Shiro’s chest as he leads Keith beneath the soothing spray of water and helps wash the soap off his body.

They stay in the shower so long that all the hot water runs cold. It’s only then that they stumble out, stealing shy smiles at each other as they each spend more time trying to dry off each other instead of themselves. Shiro’s never been so happy.

It’s a strange realization, one Shiro ponders as he watches Keith get towel dry his still damp hair, eventually giving up shaking his head so his hair flies up in every direction. Even damp the little bit of hair at the back of Keith’s head sticks up adorably, reminiscent of a sprout. He’s so cute it’s all Shiro can do to keep his hand off Keith, reaching out to stroke fingers down Keith’s striped hip.

“You’re so pretty,” Shiro whispers, feeling bold.

A pale lavender blush blossoms down Keith’s neck as he flutters his thick eyelashes at Shiro. There’s nothing Shiro wants more than to say fuck going to town and take Keith to bed. Fortunately the responsible part of Shiro’s brain knows that if they do that, they’re going to be eating nothing but scrambled eggs for days and as much as Shiro loves eggs, he’s pretty sure Keith might be getting sick of them.

“I’m going to get dressed and check on Atlas before we leave. I’ll meet you by the truck, yeah?” Shiro says, smoothing his palm up Keith’s side. If he doesn’t get out of Keith’s naked presence—and soon—they won’t make it out of the house today.

“Okay,” Keith answers, big eyes turned up on Shiro.

Shiro wants to kiss him. He wants to draw his hand through Keith’s soft, still-damp hair and never let go. He wants to press him down into the mattress and make him dirty enough they’ll need another shower. He wants to hear Keith’s moan echo through his bedroom, the warm summer breeze carrying them through the room.

He—he needs to get outside before he gives in to his desire to waste away the entire day fucking.

“I'm just...gonna...get dressed,” Shiro mumbles, dropping his hand and moving to the closet and grabbing the first clean clothes he finds—a pair of dark wash jeans and a thin white t-shirt. He’s careful not to spare a single glance at Keith until his socks and boots are on or he runs the risk of losing the small bit of control he’s got over his hormones.

It’s only when he’s fully dressed that he dares to look up to find Keith standing there still completely naked, hand on his hip and his lip quirked in the corner. Right, Shiro thinks—Keith can smell his raging hormones right now.

“I’m just gonna get everything ready. You know...so we’re ready,” Shiro says, unable to resist the urge to cross the room and press a chaste kiss to Keith’s lips, but making sure to back away before Keith can get his hands on Shiro or they really won’t leave the house today. 

“I thought you were going to depart,” Keith says, looking smug.

Shiro huffs out a laugh, scrubbing his hand over his cheeks. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

The last thing he sees before leaving his room is Keith’s pert ass bent over as he rummages through Shiro’s dresser.

While he waits for Keith to come down, Shiro fills Atlas’s water bowl, moves his bed under the window with the most sunlight in the living room, and pulls out a large bone he’d been saving as a treat. Then he heads outside, leaning against his truck and rapping his fingers against the truckbed as he waits for Keith.

He doesn’t have to wait long, maybe five minutes at most, before Keith’s jogging out the back door and down the steps of the porch. He’s dressed in a pair of Shiro’s sweats that, while snug on Shiro, hang loose on his body, and Shiro’s senior grad shirt from high school. It’s a combination that makes Shiro weak in the knees.

It’s not until Keith’s a foot from him that he realizes what else Keith is wearing.

_His knife._

“I am ready,” Keith declares as he comes to stand beside the truck.

Shiro blinks, still processing the massive knife swinging from Keith’s tiny waist.

“Uh, so about the knife.”

“Yes,” Keith says, eyes wide and innocent. "My knife is good."

“Yeah, it is. But...maybe you don’t need the knife,” he tries. 

“I always need the knife,” Keith challenges, eyebrows knitting together. 

“Yeah, no...it’s just...it’s just town,” he tries again, pretty sure a stranger showing up with a massive ceremonial blade at his hip is going to attract a lot of attention, not all of it positive. “You really won’t need the blade to buy groceries.”

“I must be prepared,” Keith says, hand drifting to the hilt of his knife. 

“Right,” Shiro says, realizing casual isn’t going to work. He puffs up his cheeks with air and then blows it out. “The thing is, most humans are going to be nervous if you show up in town with that. It’s not really common to see and people might...well, they might be a little uncomfortable.”

Keith blinks, clearly not understanding. “I will not use it unless threatened. It will remain sheathed. I give you my word.”

“It’s not that, Keith. I trust you,” Shiro tells him, reaching out to rest his hand over Keith’s and slowly prying it off the hilt of the knife. “But I really think you’ll be safer without it.”

The look on Keith’s face makes it obvious he doesn’t believe Shiro. “One cannot be safer unarmed.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Shiro breathes.

“I will not be hurt, Shiro. I have trained with this blade my entire life. If there is trouble, it is only someone else who will be hurt. I can protect you too—on my honor.”

Shiro’s chest clenches. It’s such a Keith thing to say, and even the smallest possibility of the worst case scenario happening floods him with fear. He’s got to keep Keith safe. He has to. He doesn't care what happens to him. All he cares about is keeping Keith safe and happy.

“There are other ways to be hurt besides the end of a blade. Just—I know it doesn’t make sense," Shiro breathes, trying to quell the racing of his heart, "but I’d feel better if you left the knife here. _Please_.”

Keith licks his lips, gaze intense as he stares at Shiro. He’s quiet for so long that Shiro starts to worry. Then Keith moves his hands to the knotted string at his side, deft fingers undoing the complicated knot. His knife falls to the grass, but his eyes remain on Shiro’s.

“For you,” he says.

Shiro’s exhale is shaky as he bends down to pick up the knife. “Thank you, Keith.”

Keith gives him a small smile but his hands remained fisted at his sides. He’s clearly uncomfortable, and Shiro’s guilt at stripping Keith of his blade is assuaged only by the knowledge that he truly will be safer without it. It would attract too much attention, and too many questions.

Shiro jogs back to the house, stowing the blade in the kitchen and giving Atlas a few last minute head scratches before returning to Keith and the truck. Keith’s quiet as they climb inside, even quieter as Shiro leans over him and buckles his seatbelt. It’s a quiet that shifts into something companionable as they drive into town—Keith’s arm slowly moving across the bench seat inch by inch until his left hand is snug on Shiro’s thigh as they barrel down the road at sixty miles an hour, windows down and wind in their hair. 

It’s been years since Shiro had anyone beside Atlas in the truck with him and he’d forgotten how nice it could be just to _be_ with someone. Shiro knows he wasn’t unhappy before, he just hadn’t realized there was so much room to be _happier_.

All too soon they’re passing other cars on the road, Keith’s hand leaving his thigh as he turns his head out the window soaking it all in. Shiro can’t blame him. The town is beautiful—blue skies and tree-lined streets filled with quaint little shops. 

Keith is clearly fascinated, nearly leaning out the window as they pass people. His curiosity is vibrant and beautiful, and Shiro does his best to ignore the flutter of insecurity it invokes in favor of being happy for him. He knows he can’t keep Keith to himself forever, and he wouldn’t want to—Keith deserves this. But all the same, it’s hard not to watch Keith’s eyes widen as they pull onto the main street to find parking and not take it as a sign of what’s to come. Sometime in the future, maybe soon, Keith will discover there’s more to Earth than Shiro and his farm and want to go see it for himself.

And Shiro, well, Shiro will do whatever it takes to support Keith and make sure he gets what he wants—regardless of what state it will leave his own heart in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream about Sheith with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro and Keith head into town where Keith discovers the wonder of Earth junk food and that despite his assertions, Shiro is anything but typical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this fic is almost done. This grocery shopping chapter is one of my favorites and I really hope everyone enjoys. <3
> 
> Also I took liberties with the timeline of limited edition foods but just know that all foods mentioned in this chapter are in fact real and were once for sale (just not at the same time lol).

Shiro has to circle Main Street five times before he finds a place to park, trying to tamp down his own nervous energy. It’s a Saturday afternoon, Shiro knew it would be crowded with people coming in to do their weekly shopping or just looking to socialize. But it’s one thing to know it, and another thing to see the sidewalks crowded with people.

Keith’s hand is back on Shiro’s thigh, gripping hard enough to bruise as they pull into a parking spot in front of the bank.

“We’re here,” Shiro declares.

Keith’s grip tightens, verging on painful. “Yes.”

“Are you nervous?” he asks.

Keith grunts. “I would feel better if I had my knife.”

Shiro sighs. He knows Keith isn’t happy about it, but he’s grateful he agreed to leave it at home.

“Hey, look at me,” Shiro says, covering Keith’s hand with his own. “I would never let anything happen to you. Besides, you and I both know you could take out anyone in this town with your bare hands if you needed to…which for the record, you won’t need to do.”

Keith’s lips tug up in the corner. “You are not wrong. I am most skilled at hand-to-hand combat. I once took down a fully grown Byrkut with nothing but my bare hands and a rock.”

“I have no idea what that means, but I’m still very impressed,” Shiro laughs, giving Keith’s hand a squeeze.

“I am most impressive,” Keith cheekily agrees, some of his tension bleeding away at Shiro's praise.

Shiro grins, removing his hand from Keith’s to roll up the windows, careful to leave them cracked enough that the inside of the truck won’t overheat while they’re shopping.

“So are you ready then?” Shiro asks. 

“I am always ready.”

Shiro’s not sure if it’s the truth, but he likes Keith’s bravado all the same—as attractively bold as he is brave. The list of things Shiro likes about Keith is becoming unending.

“Just one thing first,” Shiro tells him, unbuckling his seatbelt and leaning over, sprawled in Keith’s lap as he digs around in the glove compartment.

“I most enjoy this turn of events,” Keith announces, his hands immediately finding their way into Shiro’s hair. 

“You’re distracting me,” Shiro mumbles, barely stopping his eyes from fluttering shut when Keith’s nails drag across his scalp.

“Do you wish me to stop?”

“Nope,” Shiro answers immediately, able to imagine the grin probably making its way onto Keith’s face without even looking. 

He turns his attention back to the glove box, chastising past him for filling it with so much crap. Aside from his owner’s manual and registration and insurance, it’s got a shit ton of napkins, a very tangled pair of earphones, and half a pack of sweet mint gum. Buried at the bottom beneath a wad of mail that should probably be in Shiro’s filing cabinet at home, he finds what he’s looking for—his beanie.

“Got it,” he says, slamming the glove box shut then straightening up with the beanie clutched in his hand. “This is for you.”

“What is it?” Keith asks, taking the beanie and turning it over in his hands and inspecting it.

“A hat. It goes on your head. It’ll cover your ears.”

Keith’s face falls. “You do not enjoy my ears?”

The words are like a knife straight to his heart. 

“Hey, no. It’s not like that, Keith,” Shiro whispers, reaching out to stroke a finger over the tip of one of Keith’s pointy ears—poking out from his mass of black hair. “I love your ears. They’re cute.”

“But you wish me to hide them?”

Shiro nods. In another universe maybe this wouldn’t be necessary, but Shiro knows exactly what might happen if someone realized the truth about Keith, and he won’t let that become Keith’s reality. Ever.

“Humans don’t believe in aliens. Not really. And when there is something they don’t believe or understand, well—sometimes fear makes people act in ways that are unkind. I just…I want to keep you safe.”

Keith twists the beanie in his hands, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. Shiro is patient, watching as Keith turns his eyes out the window to watch the groups of people passing them by on the sidewalk. All around them people are talking and laughing. Not one of them has a hat on because it's the middle of asummer and no one in their right mind would wear a beanie. But its a beanie or have Keith's Galran ears on full display and between the two Shiro is in no doubt which is the safer option. 

“I will wear the hat,” Keith announces, pulling it roughly onto his head. “How do I look?”

There are stray bits of dark hair poking out the front and the longer bits of his hair at the back hug his neck. He's so damn cute.

“Beautiful,” Shiro whispers, unable to help himself.

Keith’s cheeks flush a soft plum as he fidgets with the hat. “We are ready to acquire food then?”

“Not quite,” Shiro says, earning him a confused stare. “There’s somewhere else I’d like to take you first.” 

“Where?”

“It’s…a surprise. If you trust me.”

“Okay,” Keith agrees, easy at that. As if there is no question that he does trust Shiro.

He can tell Keith wants to ask where they’re going, but he resists as he hops out of the truck and makes his way around to Shiro’s side of the truck,standing so close that his chest presses up against Shiro’s right bicep. He stays similarly close as they cross the street, body tensing when a car alarm loudly goes off.

“Someone probably forgot where they parked,” Shiro offers, sidestepping around Keith to get to his other side and wrapping his arm around Keith’s waist. 

Some of the tension seeps out of Keith’s shoulders at the closeness. Partly for Keith, and partly for selfish reasons, Shiro tucks his hand into the back pocket of Keith’s joggers—hand planted on his ass as they make their way down the crowded sidewalk. It’s a good thing too, since Keith is so enamored with people watching he nearly walks into a tree no less than three times. 

“Is this it?” Keith asks, eyes turned on the large window in front of them full of antiques.

“Not quite,” Shiro says, giving his ass a playful squeeze and nodding his head to the small alley beside it. There’s a single wooden arrow with the words _The Secret Place_ engraved.

The shade provides a much-needed reprieve from the early July heat, and Shiro lets his hand wander up from Keith’s pocket to his hip, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to stroke across his skin which is already dusted with a light sheen of sweat. 

“Almost there,” Shiro says softly. 

Keith’s curiosity is palpable as they duck into the alleyway, following the rainbow painted arrows that line the pathway and down a second set of stairs. By the time they reach the door—painted in mismatched swirls of color—Keith’s nearly vibrating. He pushes the door open, the small bell above it tinkling as they enter.

“I don’t know if you have anything like this in space,” Shiro says, leading Keith through the doorway and into one of his favorite places on Earth—second only to his farm. Suddenly he’s nervous, unsure if Keith will like it. Maybe a store full of nothing but books will seem boring to someone used to far-off places and real life adventures. 

“Are these all books?” Keith asks, eyes roaming over the small but jam-packed little shop. Shiro’s hand falls from his hip as Keith takes a step forward and turns his eyes up to the ceiling which is painted like the night sky.

“It’s pretty, right?”

Keith nods, eyes tracking across the hand-painted constellations.

“Ah, there you are. I was wondering when I’d see you again, Mr. Shirogane!” a voice yells. Not two seconds later a man pokes his head out from behind one of the stacks—red hair flying in every direction and a substantial handlebar mustache taking up half his face. He’s wearing—well, Shiro’s not entirely sure what he’s wearing. It looks like a cross between a pair of overalls and a disco suit. It’s definitely the strangest outfit Shiro’s ever seen, but somehow he makes it work.

“Hello, Coran,” Shiro greets, smiling. 

He’d found Coran and his bookshop during his first visit to town after moving here. Or, more accurately, Coran had found him—trying not to have a panic attack as he’d stood in the pasta aisle of the grocery store hoping if he looked preoccupied enough by pasta choices, well-meaning townspeople might stop asking him questions. Coran had ambled up, introduced himself and all but dragged Shiro down the street to his shop. He’d passed Shiro a bottle of water and told him to look around. Shiro had looked around for hours, heading to the register with an armload of books only when he realized it was closing hours. Coran hadn’t let him pay for a single thing.

The next time he came into town, Coran’s shop was the first place he came. After that it became a habit. Sometimes, Shiro spends hours wandering the shop, unsure what book he wants. Other times, he comes in only long enough to say hi and pick up whatever random book Coran might recommend to him. 

“I expected you weeks ago. I’ve got a set of books I think you might like in the back,” Coran says, smoothing down the edges of his mustache.

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?” Shiro asks, curious what Coran has in store for him this time. Last time it had been an epic sci-fi novel about a renegade band of friends who’d waged a war against an evil empire in, of all things, flying space lions. The time before that had been an epic romance between two best friends destined to continually cross galaxies and fight death to be together.

“Do you recall a request you made a few months back, my boy? For a particularly hard to find out-of-print series.”

Shiro’s heart stutters in his chest. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Coran says, puffing out his chest, unmistakably pleased with himself. “Wasn’t easy to track down the entire series of _Monsters & Mana_ but I managed to do it. First edition run too, _in Japanese_. One of my most impressive acquisitions, if I do say so myself. My old pal, Slav, managed to find them in an estate sale overseas. It was touch and go for a while when they got held up in customs, but they finally arrived a few weeks ago.”

Shiro’s heart leaps into his throat. He’d offhandedly joked about wanting the series to Coran, not truly believing he could find them. Shiro's been trying to get his hands on any of the books in the series since his grandfather passed away—desperate to hold it in his hands. By the time Coran’s nipped into the back and returned with a small stack of books tied up with a ribbon, it’s only Keith’s hand at his back that keeps him standing steady.

“Thank you, Coran,” Shiro whispers, running his hand over the ornately decorated covers. They’re exactly like the ones he remembers from his childhood—the same ones his grandfather used to read to him nightly.

“You are most welcome, my boy. And who might I ask is this strapping young fellow?” he asks, as if only noticing Keith for the first time. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you before. Are you new to town?”

Coran holds out his hand, presumably for a handshake. Keith doesn’t reach out, the gesture clearly lost on him as he clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. “I’m Keith of the Marmora Clan. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Coran giggles, actually giggles, turning his gaze on Shiro. “Oh, I like him.”

“I like him too,” Shiro agrees, ignoring the warmth in his cheeks. 

“Would you two care to get the books to go, or browse today? I’ve completely restocked the corner on astrology if you’re interested. What’s your sign, Shiro?”

“Pisces,” Shiro answers, not entirely sure if he believes in horoscopes even if he does occasionally read his in the paper.

“And what about you, Keith of Marmora?” Coran asks.

Keith looks like a deer caught in headlights, so Shiro answers for him, recalling the little bit Keith had told him about his birth on Earth before his mother had taken him back to Daizbaal to keep him safe when she realized he looked more Galra than human.

“He was born in October.”

Coran looks like Christmas has come early. “A Scorpio. How intriguing, most intriguing. Two water signs. You know, I must say I’m not at all surprised. Pisces and Scorpio are most compatible.”

“How did you know we were together?” Shiro asks.

“I know I might look ancient, but I do have eyes.”

Shiro blushes from the tips of his ears all the way down to his toes. “Now now, none of that bashfulness here. We’re all adults. I’m happy for you, my boy. Haven’t seen a smile that big on you since you moved into town. Now if you’ll both excuse me, my new employee alphabetized the entire back room and I’ve got to go unalphabitize it. Far too ordered. Can’t find a damn thing I need.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing into the back room without another word.

“So, that’s Coran.”

Keith is still staring at the door where he disappeared. “He is different.”

“Yeah he is,” Shiro agrees, unsure why his chest feels tight.

“I enjoy him.”

Shiro exhales, the tightness loosening. He’s not sure why it mattered if Keith liked Coran, but knowing he does makes Shiro feel more at ease. He hadn’t let himself admit how nervous he’d been to bring Keith here. He only hopes he likes the rest of the shop too.

“Would you like to look around? Coran’s got all sorts of amazing books here.”

“What books did he show you?” Keith asks, trying not to look too curious. The twitch of his ears gives him away, though.

“It’s a book of fairy tales for children. My grandfather used to read them to me when I was little. After the accident I started reading more than I had since I was a child, and I just…I can’t explain why, but I wanted those. Apparently they’d gone out of print, though, and I never was able to find out what happened to my grandfather’s set. You can read them if you like, when we get home.”

“I cannot read your language. My mother spoke it because of my father, but we had no books to learn from.”

“I could read it to you,” Shiro offers, unsure how it might be received. “If you think that maybe that’s something you might like.”

“I have never been read to,” Keith says, and Shiro can’t quite read the expression on his face. “Books were reserved for the elders. Most of our traditions are passed orally, but as a kit my mother told me stories. It was…nice.”

“I don’t just have to read to you. I could…I could teach you to read,” Shiro says, an image of him and Keith curled up on the couch with Atlas beside them flashing through his mind. It’s a dangerous future to imagine, at least for Shiro’s heart. “I know you’re busy with the ship and everything and, you know, maybe we won’t be able to finish lessons before you leave but, you know, if it was something you wanted then we could try.”

Keith is quiet for so long Shiro fears he’s made a mistake by suggesting something so long term. Then Keith does something that shocks the air right out of Shiro’s lungs—he hugs him. Right there in the middle of the book shop, Keith wraps his arms around Shiro and buries his face in Shiro’s chest so that his words are garbled enough that Shiro can’t understand them, but the sentiment comes through loud and clear. Keith is pleased.

He ducks his head to press a chaste kiss to Keith’s forehead, arm looping around his back and giving him a squeeze.

“Shiro, I found a copy of the _Gardener’s Almanac_ that—oh dear, I am interrupting,” Coran exclaims, eyes going comically wide when he rounds the stacks. Shiro supposes they probably are making a bit of a scene. Not that they’re doing anything sordid or salacious. Not right now, anyway. Although, Keith’s fingers finding their way under the back of his shirt right now probably suggest otherwise.

For the second time since stepping into Coran’s bookshop, Shiro’s cheeks heat, but he doesn’t make a move to untangle himself from Keith’s embrace. It’s too nice. 

“What book was that?” Shiro asks, forcing himself not to blush further. He’s a grown man. If he wants to cuddle Keith in public he can.

Coran clears his throat. “The hardcover _Gardener’s Almanac_. I found an extra copy. I know you mentioned your goat ate yours.”

“That’s wonderful, you can definitely add that to my other purchases. Thank you, Coran.”

“Not a problem, my boy,” Coran says, his smile unnaturally wide. He tips his head and then he’s gone again.

“You can come out now,” Shiro laughs, poking Keith’s cheek.

Keith withdraws his face from Shiro’s chest where it’s been buried, his beanie dislodged and his hair in his eyes. He looks like a puppy, lips turned down and eyes wide. “I apologize for my forwardness.”

“Wait, what are you apologizing for?” Shiro asks, brushing the hair out of Keith’s eyes.

“I did not ask for consent to touch you in public. Your elevated heart rate and breathing when Coran came suggests you are not comfortable.”

Shiro blinks, still unused to someone being more in tune with his own body than he is. 

“Your touch is never unwanted, Keith.”

“You were uncomfortable. Galra are…we are a tactile race. It is soothing for me to touch you. I have never asked if you feel the same. I assumed but I did not ask. Perhaps you only enjoy the touch in private.”

Keith seems to shrink in on himself a bit and Shiro shakes his head. “You can touch me anywhere. I mean you know, within reason. If we went and had sex in public we’d probably get arrested, but hugs and this—” Shiro says, nodding down at their still very close bodies, “this is good. It’s just new for me is all. I, uh…I don’t have a lot of experience with this kind of thing. I was surprised and I mean, maybe a little nervous, but not bad nervous, just…new nervous.”

“New nervous,” Keith repeats.

Shiro nods, unprepared for Keith to drag his nails down Shiro’s back. Instantly his dick goes half hard, the memory of Keith’s nails on him the night before making heat flood his body.

“Maybe stick to outside the clothing,” Shiro chokes. “Otherwise I’m gonna be tempted to risk being arrested.”

“Outside of clothing. Got it,” Keith says seriously, withdrawing his hands from beneath Shiro’s shirt and smoothing them up and down Shiro’s spine. “Like this?”

Shiro nods, acutely aware that Keith can likely hear the uptick in his heartbeat and the flare of arousal his previous touches had invoked. Somehow, the idea that Keith can hear the effect he has on Shiro through his racing heart makes Shiro even more aroused. It’s a problem. A glorious, beautiful problem that Shiro doesn’t mind dealing with if it means Keith continues to touch him—even if he knows he’s gonna need to sneak into the restroom and try to tuck his dick into his boxers in a few minutes or risk embarrassing himself. It reminds him of being sixteen and getting raging boners all the time, except this time it's directly related to Keith’s existence.

Eventually they pull apart and Shiro does sneak into the restroom, tucking his dick up into his waistband and then pulling his shirt out of his jeans instead of leaving it tucked in. There’s still a bulge, but it’s definitely _less_ noticeable.

Shiro’s only in the bathroom a few minutes, but by the time he comes out Keith is no longer standing near the door waiting for him. He’s not looking at the rows of magazines that line the wall either. Shiro’s not worried, he knows Keith wouldn’t just leave, and he knows all too well the lure of rows and rows of books. He could yell for him, but he’s not entirely sure there aren’t other people tucked away in one of the more private corners, and he’s loath to disturb the kind of calm and peace that always permeates a bookstore by shouting.

The store isn’t large, but the bookshelves are arranged in a bit of a maze, enough that Shiro wanders up and down the same rows more than once just to be sure he hasn’t missed Keith. Shiro finds him ten minutes later in the back of the store, sitting on the floor with a pile of books beside him. 

“You said humans did not believe,” Keith says, turning the book in his hands over and holding it out for Shiro.

He squats down to get a better look at the book, somehow not at all surprised to see Keith had found his way to the fantasy section. On the cover is an attractive man with long hair and a bow and arrow. The most noticeable thing about him—his pointed ears.

“They don’t,” Shiro says, itching to see Keith’s ears.

“But it is here. There are many,” Keith challenges, dropping the book in his hand and picking up another. This time there’s a woman on the cover in a flowing dress in front of a crumbling castle. She too has sharp, pointed ears. 

“Keith,” Shiro tries, but he’s already dropping the book to hold up the next. Every cover is different, but each one holds the same thing in common—pointy ears.

“They look like me,” Keith says, and there’s something in his voice—something confused and small—that makes Shiro want to pull Keith against his chest and protect him from the world. He knows Keith doesn’t need his protection, that he can handle himself, but the knowledge doesn’t make the protective urges any less encompassing.

“They do but they’re fantasy,” Shiro says, dropping to his knees. “It’s a genre of books. Fiction books. It means humans don’t think they’re real. They make up stories about them and they dress up at Halloween like a costume, but they don’t think anyone like this really exists. It’s just a story.”

“Oh,” Keith says, dropping the book. His eyes drift down to the first cover, unmistakably studying the man on the cover.

“He’s not nearly as attractive as you,” Shiro whispers.

Keith’s eyes fly up to Shiro, the faintest hint of a blush on his cheeks. “He is handsome.”

“Not as much as you,” Shiro says, feeling braver hidden in the stacks. It’s the truth and Keith deserves to hear it. He leans forward, fingers grazing Keith’s cheek as he slides his hand up, his fingers inching their way beneath the beanie and up the shell of his ear to stroke the pointed tip. “Beautiful.”

There’s a tremble in Keith’s jaw and, before Shiro knows it, he’s got a lap full of eager Keith. It’s wholly inappropriate for a public space, especially when Keith’s lips slam into his and he fists his hands in Shiro’s hair. Shiro has never cared less about propriety. The only thing he cares about is the man in his lap and the soft rumble coming from his chest as he nips at Shiro’s lip. It’s hard and desperate, and Shiro is dizzy with how much he wants to touch Keith. So he does, pushing aside any thoughts about where they are and letting his hand slip beneath the cotton of Keith’s shirt. His skin is warm, always so warm, and Shiro’s fingers dig into the flesh as he pulls him closer.

“There you are—oh my,” Coran says, spluttering.

Keith startles at the unexpected interruption, nearly falling out of Shiro’s lap. It’s only Shiro’s firm grip that keeps him properly seated. Shiro can feel his entire face flush, the desire to bury his face in Keith’s neck and hide nearly overwhelming.

“Greetings,” Keith says without missing a beat. He’s not even blushing.

“Greetings, yes,” Coran coughs. “I just wanted to suggest a new series I thought Shiro might enjoy, but perhaps later. I see you are most occupied. I’m so happy for you my boy. So happy,” he mutters, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and blowing his nose. 

It’s Shiro’s turn to be surprised. “Oh, uh…thank you.”

Coran blows his nose once more then turns, talking to himself about the mating life of penguins before disappearing. Once he’s gone Shiro buries his face in Keith’s neck and laughs.

“I do not understand what is funny,” Keith says.

Shiro doesn’t even know how to explain why he’s laughing when he hardly knows himself. He just feels like a teenager, not someone closer to thirty. He can’t believe he just got caught making out in the back of a bookstore. He feels sixteen all over again, except he was never this reckless or besotted even as a teenager. 

“Just happy,” he mumbles, hugging Keith tightly. He feels ridiculous, and he kind of likes it.

“Humans are very confusing,” Keith declares, which only makes Shiro laugh harder.

“Yeah, we are,” he agrees, trying and failing to stifle his laughter in Keith’s shoulder.

“I think…I am happy too,” Keith offers. His voice is casual but his hands are fisted tightly in Shiro’s shirt, almost as if the confession has cost him something. He knows that Keith wasn’t exactly unhappy on Daizbaal. Despite never quite feeling as if he fit in, he talks fondly of his childhood and his mother and his homeland. All the same, the idea that Keith has found any kind of happiness on Earth—with Shiro—is something Shiro treasures.

The same feeling bubbles up in his chest again as he pulls back to look at Keith. He’s so beautiful it takes Shiro’s breath away, and he’s beginning to suspect he’s going to have a very large hole in his heart whenever Keith leaves. 

A million thoughts flutter through Shiro’s brain. _I’ve never felt like this about anyone. I don’t want you to leave. You are so special._

He says none of them. He’s said too much already. So he does the only safe thing and kisses Keith again. It doesn’t matter that they might be caught again, or that doing it a second time is entirely irresponsible. 

All that matters is kissing Keith.

* * *

They do eventually leave the bookshop laden down with bags of new books—most for Shiro, a few that Keith gravitates to for the covers alone and Shiro insists on buying him, and even a few books Shiro slides in for learning English in case Keith decides it's something he desires. Shiro sneaks those in at the end, wanting to have them on hand but not wanting Keith to feel pressured.

When they're done they drag the books back to the truck to stow away their purchases. They also spend a good ten minutes semi-hidden between the truck and the open passenger door when Keith rises on tiptoes to kiss Shiro and Shiro can’t help but greedily press Keith against the door and kiss him. The sounds of people walking along the sidewalk filter by as the brutal midday sun beats down on their heads, but Shiro can’t bring himself to stop. At least not until he hears giggling and looks up to see a group of teenagers obviously watching them from the ice cream parlor on the corner.

Shiro clears his throat, straightening Keith’s beanie and tucking his hand in Keith’s as they shut the door. Keith’s oblivious to the stares they attract, but Shiro feels every single one—distinctly aware of the curious gazes and not-so-quiet whispering that follows them.

It’s not a surprise. Shiro’s arrival in town always rouses a few stares and whispers. It’s something he’s gotten used to, even if he dislikes it. It’s also the reason he keeps his visits to the bare minimum and tries to buy enough shelf stable groceries to last him a good month or two when he can. They don’t get new people in town often, so he can only imagine what Keith’s sudden presence must look like, especially since he keeps hip checking Shiro.

They round the corner, with another group of googly eyed teenagers hanging out in the shade in front of the only pharmacy in town, and Keith removes his hand from Shiro’s to tuck it in the back of his jeans, giving Shiro’s ass a very firm and obvious squeeze. The teens are not at all subtle with their whistles, and Shiro’s face heats considerably. He’s only glad everyone else around them is red in the cheeks from the sun so his own blush isn’t too noticeable. Or he hopes, anyway.

At least half a dozen people stop them on their way to the grocery store, eager to make small talk with Shiro and tell him how much he’s been missed in town. It’s sweet, and also more than a little overwhelming. Especially when most of them inevitably ask about Keith, in great detail—where he’s from, how long he’s staying, and how he and Shiro met. Each question is met with two more. Shiro is polite as always, and as vague as it’s possible to be without rousing suspicion. He deflects, making excuses to leave, only to be stopped by another well-meaning but nosy townsperson not five feet down the road.

By the time the grocery store comes into view, Shiro immensely regrets parking on Main Street to give Keith a walking tour instead of taking the easy way and moving his truck. Especially since it now occurs to him he’s going to have to move the truck to load up the food when they’re done anyway.

They’ve just stepped inside the sliding double doors—blessed cold air hitting him in the face—when the last person Shiro feels like talking to walks in front of him.

“There you are, Mr. Shirogane. You’ve been a very hard man to get a hold of. I wanted to call you, but Coran refused to give me your personal number. Every time I asked, he spouted off some mumbo jumbo about consent,” says Sanda, the town Mayor. 

“Oh, well—”

“No need to apologize, I’ve got you here now,” Sanda interrupts.

Shiro refrains for pointing out that he had absolutely no intention of apologizing, but he does vow to thank Coran for respecting his privacy next time he sees him instead.

“What is it that you needed, Madam Mayor.”

Beside him Keith’s curiosity is palpable but he says nothing, remaining beside Shiro silently—his hand still firm on Shiro’s ass through his back pocket. 

“I’m so glad you asked,” she says, straightening the lapels on her blazer. “We’re one person short on our farm committee, and I think you’re just the man to fill that spot.”

“That’s a very kind offer but like I said last time, I’m not really interested in bureaucracy and—”

“You can give me your answer later. I’m sure when you think about it again you’ll make the right decision. There’s also a charity auction happening at the end of August at Kolivan’s farm, and I’m sure you’ll want to donate something. Then there’s the small matter of that idea I pitched you back in April about allowing tours of your farm to increase tourism to the town. Now, before you say no, I’ve already looked into the laws, and you could technically take on quite a few more rescue animals. A great deal more actually. Your property size is certainly zoned for it. Then it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump through paperwork, and I can even have the schools doing field trips to the farm in the off-season. Between you and me you could even aquire a few more animals, rescue or not, just so there's more to show off.”

The idea of throngs of people traipsing through his vegetable patches or startling his skittish goats and previously abused animals practically gives Shiro hives. On the long list of things he doesn’t want, turning his peaceful bit of land into some sort of petting zoo is pretty close to the top. He's also not about to overcrowd his animals and increase their anxiety for someone else's agenda. 

“I’m not sure the fragile nature of the relationship I have with my animals is quite suited to that specific endeavor, though I appreciate you thinking of me,” Shiro says, not wanting to offend Sanda but hoping to make it clear he is absolutely not taking part in whatever nonsense she's cooking up.

Sanda tuts. “I’m sure you’ll change your tune. I’ll send over the proposal to your farm later. The monetary revenue alone should be quite enticing.”

Shiro can feel his heart thud painfully in his throat as his palms begin to sweat despite the cool interior of the grocery store. He hates confrontation. Sanda is one of the only people Shiro is not entirely sure always has the best intentions. She’s not a bad person, probably—maybe. But her certainty that she knows what's best for everyone in town regardless of what they say is something Shiro is not on board with. He’s also just not up for saying that right now when he doesn't want to draw unnecessary attention to Keith, his breakfast has worn off long ago and he’s starving, and all he wants to do is walk to the freezer section and stick his head in the freezer to cool off.

“I am Keith,” Keith says, moving to stand in front of Shiro like some sort of human shield. 

If Sanda is confused she doesn't show it, but maybe that's part of being mayor—learning how to maintain composure. 

“I’m pleased to meet you, Keith. I wasn’t aware Mr. Shirogane had any house guests. How are you enjoying our little town?”

“I enjoy some more than others,” Keith says, and the expression that passes across Sanda’s face is nothing short of comical. It’s clear she can’t tell if Keith is being sarcastic or not. 

“Yes, well…we all have our preferences don’t we. And will you be staying here long?” Sanda asks, smiling in a way that Shiro can’t help but feel is less than genuine. 

Keith is quiet before he turns, placing a hard on Shiro’s arm and beginning to walk away. “We must depart.”

Sanda’s eyebrows knit together in confusion as Shiro stumbles backward, trying not to laugh. Keith just did what Shiro’s been dying to do for a year—walk away from Sanda.

“I’ll send you the paperwork, Mr. Shirogane!” She yells.

Before Shiro can do more than wave, Keith has tugged him behind a large floral display of bouquets of sunflowers. The bright yellow flowers surround him, and whatever Shiro was going to say gets lost, dwarfed by the thought that Keith is so very pretty.

“We forgot a cart,” Shiro whispers, barely resisting the urge to kiss Keith in the middle of the floral department.

“What is a cart?” Keith asks. 

“Stay here,” Shiro instructs, sprinting back out through the sliding doors to retrieve a cart from the line and pushing it back to Keith.

“What do we do with it?” Keith asks, testing it out by pushing and pulling it.

“We fill it with food we want to buy,” Shiro tells him. “You wanna push the cart or just browse?”

“I can push it?” Keith asks, eyes wide as if Shiro has offered him something exciting.

“Of course.”

Keith moves beside Shiro, wrapping his hands around the handlebar and straightening his shoulders. He looks like he’s ready to launch himself into space, eyebrows knit together tightly. “I am ready.”

Cute. He’s so damn cute.

“Let’s start in the baking aisle. I’m in desperate need of, well—everything,” Shiro laughs, placing his hand on Keith’s back. “It’s aisle number six.”

Keith’s eyes roam over the large numbers hanging from the ceiling until he spots aisle six and pushes the cart forward. Shiro hangs back, hand remaining on Keith’s back as they move. It’s crowded enough that Keith has to stop multiple times when someone cuts him off. Each time, his eyebrows scrunch together. 

“This is worse than navigating through the asteroid belt. This is impossible,” Keith grumbles the fourth time someone with a very full cart stops to look at a sale end cap of cereal and leaves their cart directly in front of him.

“There’s nothing like Saturdays at the supermarket,” Shiro whispers, running his palm up Keith’s spin. He clears his throat loudly, earning him the attention of the oblivious shopper. “Excuse me, ma’am, could we get past you.”

The woman blinks twice, eyes moving back and forth from Keith to Shiro several times before she nods and pulls her cart out of the way.

“Thank you,” Shiro says, nodding his head as they move forward.

Keith waits until they’re out of earshot before he speaks.“Your mastery of human relations is most impressive.” 

Keith says, turning the cart to the right when they reach aisle six.

His words make Shiro chuckle as he places his hand on the cart, silently steering it to the right so Keith doesn’t miss the baking aisle. “Let’s just say my grandparents were _very_ into being polite. Besides, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Or, at least that’s what my grandma used to always say.”

“You wish to catch flies?” Keith asks, stopping in the middle of the aisle so abruptly Shiro walks directly into him. 

“Oh, no…not literally. It’s just a saying.”

Keith sighs heavily and Shiro steps around the edge of the cart to get a good look at his face. His lips are turned down in an expression that is eerily close to a pout. “Humans say many things that do not mean what they say. It is very confusing.”

“Yeah, sometimes we are. Language has a lot of nuance. You can learn the language, but understanding the meaning and context can take time. But you’re doing great…amazing, really.”

“Are you being polite again?”

His words take Shiro by surprise and he huffs out a laugh at Keith’s keen perceptiveness. “No, Keith. I mean every word.”

“But you say and do things you do not wish to do. To be kind…to be polite.”

Shiro puffs up his cheeks with air, glad there’s no one else down this aisle.

“Sometimes,” he agrees. “It’s just part of being human I guess. Kindness is…it’s what connects us. Besides, I’m only treating other people the same way I hope they’ll treat me.”

To Shiro’s surprise this doesn’t make the frown lines on Keith’s face disappear and he has no idea why. He also can’t really get as deep as he’d like to with this conversation right now without asking about Keith’s own context for the same things in space without risking someone overhearing them. The look of unease on Keith’s face doesn’t belong there, and Shiro wants to get rid of it.

“They’ve got flour. Lots of it,” he says, waving his arm at the fully stocked shelf behind Keith. They’ve even got the massive fifteen pound bag of local organic flour that Shiro likes best in stock. “I could whip up a batch of pancakes when we get home, or maybe cinnamon buns. Anything you want.”

“You do much to make me happy,” Keith says, voice surprisingly quiet.

“Of course,” Shiro says, reaching out to cover Keith’s hand with his own.

“Because it’s polite?” Keith asks, turning his gaze on Shiro. His chin is tilted up, eyes wide and questioning and Shiro can feel the shape of the hole Keith will leave when he departs so acutely it leaves him breathless.

“Because you’re Keith,” Shiro whispers. It’s not half the truth of it all, but he’s pretty sure fledgling confessions of adoration in the middle of a crowded Wegmans is not a wise idea. Partly because someone could come down this aisle any second in desperate need of baking powder or chocolate chips, and partly because if Shiro told Keith even a fraction of the way he feels, he takes the risk of scaring him straight back to Daizbaal.

Thankfully Keith seems pleased by the answer, offering no more questions and instead taking notice of the large stock of chocolate chips behind them.

“What is a butterscotch chip?” he asks.

Shiro exhales the breath he’s holding. At least that's a question he has no trouble answering. 

Twenty minutes later they finally leave the baking aisle laden down with thirty pounds of flour, an assortment of baking chips—including butterscotch and some limited edition unicorn-colored white chocolate ones Keith had been fascinated by. They also buy enough maple syrup for a small army, a pound of yeast, and an assortment of new spices for a few more complicated recipes Shiro’s been wanting to try out for Keith.

They make a quick pass down the refrigerated section where Shiro buys out the entire stock of grass-fed butter and enough cashew milk to help indulge his late night Oreo addiction, and a couple of yogurts Shiro thinks Keith might enjoy. He’s debating between blackberry and strawberry yogurt when he realizes Keith is no longer standing beside him. Turning on his heels his eyes roam across the store searching for Keith’s head. He doesn’t see him.

Shiro doesn’t panic, because that seems ridiculous. He does worry though, just a little bit.

He grabs a hold of the end of the cart and pulls it with him, eyes tracking up and down each aisle he passes in search of Keith. He’s not back in the baking aisle, or the canned foods. He’s not down the cleaning aisle or the health care one either. With every aisle he passes that is devoid of Keith, the tiny bit of worry increases. He knows that Keith is more than capable of handling himself, but he’s also wildly out of his depth and—and he’s standing in the cookie aisle.

“Keith,” Shiro exhales, clearly louder than he meant to since half the people in the cookie aisle turn to look at him. 

Keith’s head darts up, a smile on his face as he points at the wall of Oreos. It’s so adorable, and Shiro wants nothing more than to wrap himself around Keith, so he does—abandoning his cart at the end of the aisle and weaving his way through the crowd of people shopping until he’s right behind Keith. He gives in to the urge to be as close as possible, regardless of who is watching and wedges his chest up to Keith’s back.

“Hi,” he whispers.

“Shiro, they have Oreos in flavors,” Keith says as if it's the coolest thing he’s ever heard of.

“Yeah they do,” Shiro laughs, draping his arm over Keith’s shoulder and resting his hand on Keith’s chest. Beneath his palm Keith’s heart beats strong and fast, his excitement unmistakable—his excitement over Oreos. 

“I did not know humans possessed shrinking technology,” Keith mutters, more to himself than Shiro, as he grabs a travel cup of mini Oreos and shakes it. 

“We don’t,” Shiro says, careful to pitch his voice low in case anyone is listening. “They use a machine to make them miniature.”

“Do they taste the same?” Keith asks, resting his weight back against Shiro’s chest.

“We could buy them and you can find out for yourself.”

“Yes, I wish to find out,” Keith says seriously.

“Are there any other flavors you want to taste?” Shiro asks, stroking his fingers over Keith’s chest, surprised when Keith emits a soft purr. It’s quiet enough he doubts anyone else will notice, but Shiro does.

“All of them,” Keith answers.

Shiro laughs, at least until he realizes Keith isn’t kidding. Which is exactly how they end up filling the rest of the cart with no less than twelve packages of Oreos, including—much to Shiro’s horror—a popcorn flavor. He can’t imagine anything more horrifying than buttered popcorn flavored Oreos, and makes sure to add two packages of plain chocolate ones to the cart to counter balance Keith’s wild choices. 

Keith’s curiosity about human foods extends far beyond Oreos, and they spend the next half hour after leaving the cookie aisle in the snack food aisle where Keith finds so many things he wants to try that Shiro has to go and get a second cart. 

Shiro’s chest constricts with fondness as he watches Keith’s face scrunch up in concentration while he tries to choose between some weird limited edition Lays. 

“You know you can get as many as you want,” Shiro offers, his heart doing a weird swooping thing when Keith’s eyes light up as if he’s done something special and not just offered to buy him chips. The truth is he’d buy Keith anything, including a cart full of gross snack foods.

Keith is quiet, turning his eyes on the overflowing carts beside Shiro. “This will cost much, and I do not have money. I could…I could work on the farm. To pay you back.”

“You don’t need to pay me back for anything, Keith.”

“I wish to earn my keep,” Keith asserts as he adds two more bags of chips to the cart. “You will let me work on the farm.”

Keith straightens his shoulders and juts out his chin as if daring Shiro to argue—his words clearly a statement, not a question. Shiro has no intention of doing so, even if a part of him would happily take care of Keith for the rest of his life if Keith let him. 

“If it’s what you want,” Shiro says, understanding all too well what it’s like to want to earn your way. “But only if you want to. Don’t do it because you feel like you have to, or you owe me anything, okay?”

“Tomorrow you will teach me,” Keith says.

“Alright,” Shiro agrees, wondering if he looks as besotted as he feels watching as Keith grabs another bag of chips.

His adoration turns to revulsion when he looks into the cart and notices the flavors Keith picked—grilled cheese and tomato soup, everything bagel, and chicken and waffles. Shiro has has absolutely no desire to taste any of them but he also knows if Keith asks him to he will, though whether that says more about his inability to tell people no, or his desire to make Keith happy, he’s not entirely sure. 

Before they leave the chip aisle Keith’s added a jar of salt and vinegar peanuts to the cart, along with some spicy tempeh jerky and a candy bar with cinnamon and chili peppers in it. Shiro makes sure to drag them down near the pharmacy to pick up some Pepto Bismol just in case. He has no idea if aliens get indigestion but considering the contents of their second shopping cart, it feels better to err on the side of caution. 

At this point they’ve got more than enough to supplement what Shiro can grow or trade for on the farm, and more than enough snacks—especially since Shiro doesn’t even usually eat snacks. But Keith is so fascinated by everything that when he takes a detour down the granola bar aisle, Shiro simply follows, the cart so heavy it's becoming difficult to push with one hand. Keith’s curiosity increases at the array of brightly packaged granola bars and Pop-Tarts, and Shiro doesn’t have the heart to tell him none of it tastes as good as it looks. Which means they end up with several packages of Pop-Tarts and even a box of granola bars with pop rocks in them.

The same thing happens in each of the last few aisles they go to and while Shiro is busy stocking up on rice and dry beans, Keith is adding jars of pickled jalapenos, tamarind juice, and guava Jello-o from the little section of international food behind him. 

By the time they’ve completed their rounds of the store, Shiro’s stomach is growling, his arm is tired from pushing the cart, and he’s begun to worry about Keith, who has been getting increasingly more quiet over the last half hour as he pushes his cart behind Shiro. 

He wants to ask Keith if everything is okay but the lines are long, people packed together and cranky as they wait to check out. The last thing Shiro wants to do is risk making Keith uncomfortable or accidentally get them into a conversation that’s better had in private. He can’t even reach out to touch him since Keith’s stuck behind his own cart, so he does the only thing he can and turns and gives Keith a smile. Keith returns it easily, his eyes softening when he realizes Shiro has been watching him. It makes the prickle of unease abate as Shiro unloads the first shopping cart onto the belt. 

“I will help,” Keith declares when he realizes what Shiro is doing, slipping in between the carts.

“Thanks, Keith.”

Unloading the carts goes much quicker with two, though Keith’s way of helping is to pile it on the belt as quickly as possible, an act which Shiro counters by reorganizing the items so that they’re grouped together by weight and type of food. Partly because if he doesn't, he knows the bagger will shove everything together and the chips will end up smashed under bags of flour or beans, and partly because it will make it easier for Shiro when he unpacks the groceries at home.

It’s the longest its ever taken Shiro to check out, and the bagger ends up having to get a third empty cart to load the packed groceries into as they unload the first two. He can feel the annoyed gaze from the man behind them who is clearly tired of waiting in line. Shiro offers him a kind smile, but this seems to annoy him further and he sighs shaking his head.

Shiro has no intention of engaging, and goes along pretending he can’t hear the man's heavy sighs as they start to unload the second cart. Shiro continues to ignore him, not because he doesn’t care, but because he’s got years of practice pretending he doesn’t care what people think of him. And it’s working.

At least until the register freezes.

“Sorry, it’ll just be a few minutes. It does this sometimes when I’ve got a big order,” the cashier apologizes. 

“Not a problem,” Shiro tells her. Despite his mounting hunger they’re not actually in a hurry, and it's certainly not the cashier’s fault.

Behind them the grumbling gets louder, followed this time by actual words. “Figures I’d get stuck behind the asshole hoarding snack foods.”

“What is an asshole?” Keith asks loudly.

“It’s okay, Keith, it doesn’t matter,” Shiro tries, a hand on Keith’s forearm.

“My mistake, asshole and idiot,” the guy corrects, shaking his head.

The transformation is so subtle Shiro almost doesn’t notice it. It’s only when Keith’s nails sharpen—digging into Shiro’s forearm that he notices the hint of yellow in Keith’s pupils and the sharpening of his teeth as he speaks. “You are not worthy to speak to Shiro.”

Shiro’s inhale is sharp. He needs to de-escalate and _now_. There are so many people around them, the chance of someone else noticing the change in Keith is too high—too dangerous.

“He’s not worth it,” Shiro murmurs, stepping between Keith and the disgruntled customer behind him, desperate to get him out of Keith’s line of sight.

Keith nearly growls, his teeth filling out to pointed fangs. “Back home I would challenge him for his insolence. He would lose.”

“I’m sure he would,” Shiro agrees quietly, stroking his hand over Keith’s hip. He slips his hand beneath the cotton hem, uncaring who is watching them now. All he cares about is Keith as he strokes his fingers against Keith’s warm flesh. He needs to calm Keith down.

“I do not know what he said but I understand his tone, his anger—he deserves to be put in his place,” Keith grumbles. It’s almost a growl. 

“He doesn’t deserve your attention,” Shiro whispers, dropping his forehead to Keith’s. He can still hear the man behind them grumbling and he’s eager to block him out of Keith’s view and memory. 

Keith huffs, but Shiro can see it’s working. He increases the pressure at Keith’s hip, digging his fingers into the purple stripes he knows lay beneath Keith’s shirt. 

“Let’s just pay and go home.”

“Home,” Keith echoes.

“Yes,” Shiro agrees, heart rattling in his chest as the cashier begins to ring up the rest of their groceries. They need to move soon, and they can’t do that with Keith’s features the way they are now. “Back to the farm.”

Keith rises on tiptoes to try and peek at the man behind them and Shiro panics, unable to stomach the idea of Keith being discovered like this. He does the only thing he can and kisses Keith, ignoring the overly loud tittering from the cranky customer.

It’s the first time he’s kissed Keith with his fangs out and they’re sharp against his lips as Keith softens into the kiss. Despite the temptation to let the kiss linger, Shiro forces himself to keep it quick, aware they’re likely causing a bit of a scene, but at least it’s from a very public display of affection, instead of from someone discovering Keith’s an alien.

Shiro swallows down Keith’s soft exhale, stroking his hip as he breaks the kiss. As much as he wants to keep on kissing Keith, this isn’t exactly the time or place.

“We should probably pay,” Shiro mumbles, aching to kiss Keith again.

“I can take him without my knife,” Keith says, apparently not as distracted as Shiro had hoped.

“You don’t need to do that. He’s really not worth it.”

“But you are upset,” Keith says, loud enough for only Shiro to hear. “When he said what he said, your heart rate elevated and you begin to perspire. He _upset_ you.”

Shiro’s heart flip flops in his chest. Oh.

Keith wasn’t being hot-headed. He was being protective.

“I wasn’t upset because he called me an asshole,” Shiro confesses, aware of the conveyor belt slowly emptying. There are only a few more items left and then they need to pay, but it feels important that Keith knows this. “I was upset because I was worried about you.”

“You—” but Keith doesn’t finish his thought, stopping in favor of tugging Shiro down for another kiss that has Shiro making an equally inappropriate noise considering they’re in public. He’s aware of the man behind them cursing again, but it's not until the cashier politely clears her throat to get their attention that Shiro breaks the kiss and digs his wallet out of his back pocket.

Keith is noticeably quiet again as they leave the store, and when Shiro returns from picking up the truck and meeting Keith in the parking lot. He’s quiet as they load up the back of the pickup, and even more quiet as they drive down the open road. Shiro longs to ask about it, but something in Keith’s silence feels contemplative, so he waits and hopes Keith will tell him. It’s not long before Shiro turns down the long dirt road towards his farm when Keith finally speaks.

“You did not tell me the truth,” Keith blurts out. 

It’s enough to almost make Shiro slam on the breaks. 

“I didn’t what?” he asks, and it’s only his ability to remain calm under pressure that means he doesn’t even flinch as they continue barreling down the dirt road.

“You did not give me the truth,” Keith repeats. “You said you were like other humans.”

His words do nothing to lessen Shiro’s confusion. “I am.”

“No,” Keith asserts, shaking his head. “No.”

“I’m nothing special. I’m just—”

“No,” Keith repeats, turning to face Shiro. “You are…you are brave and kind. You are decent.”

“So are lots of people,” Shiro says. “I mean there are jerks like the guy at the grocery store, but there are so many great people in the world too and—”

“You do not see,” Keith interrupts, sounding frustrated as his hand grips his seatbelt.

If Shiro wasn’t driving he’d take his hand off the steering wheel to touch Keith's. As it is, the best he can do is ask what Keith means as the farmhouse comes into view in the distance.

“What don’t I see?” he asks.

“You are not like other humans,” Keith says, in a tone Shiro doesn’t know how to read. Especially not while driving when he can’t try to read Keith’s facial expressions.

“What am I—Atlas,” Shiro yells, slamming on the breaks so hard the groceries go sliding—bags of chips and rice colliding into the back window. “Shit.”

Keith’s hands slam into the dashboard as his seat belt tightens. 

“Sorry,” Shiro yells, undoing his seatbelt. “Are you okay?”

Keith nods. “I am fine, but Atlas is not.”

Atlas lets out a loud bark, as if aware of Keith’s words. Shiro reaches for his handle, barely getting the door partially open before Atlas is barking again, scrambling his way up the step and into the truck. He huffs, tail whacking the dash as he erratically moves in Shiro’s lap—or as much as a fifty pound dog can move with a steering wheel in the way.

“Hey, Atlas. I didn’t mean to worry you. I was gone a long time wasn’t I?” Atlas’s tail thumps Shiro’s right shoulder as he whines, muddy paws on Shiro’s shirt as he licks Shiro’s face. “I know. I know. I wasn’t thinking about the time. I’m sorry, buddy.”

“Atlas loves you,” Keith observes, voice pitched low.

Shiro smiles, running his hand over Atlas’s back. “I love him too. He’s a good boy. You’re a good boy aren’t you, Atlas?”

Atlas’s tail wags even harder, a little whine escaping him at the praise as he practically tries to climb onto Shiro’s head. Shiro can’t help but laugh. He missed him too, more than he even realized. His trips into town never take this long, and he feels a bit guilty for not realizing that Atlas might notice his prolonged absence. 

“So, what was it you were going to say. Before?” Shiro asks, patting Atlas’s side as a long wet tongue licks up his cheek. 

“It was not of importance,” Keith answers, reaching out to pet Atlas’s back.

“You sure?” Shiro asks, linking his fingers with Keith’s as they stroke Atlas’s back together.

“Yes,” Keith assures him. “But Shiro…”

“Yeah?” 

“I have much hunger.”

Shiro grins. “I think I can help with that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream about Sheith with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Keith finally fixes his ship, Shiro prepares to lose everything he holds dear. 
> 
> What he ends up with instead is a future he never dreamed of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe the end is finally here. This story was a real labor of love and joy to write and edit and seeing people really enjoy it has been one of the most rewarding things ever. Thank you all so much.

True to his word about wanting to help on the farm, the next morning after breakfast instead of disappearing to work on his ship after breakfast Keith lingers—watching as Shiro loads the dishwasher and quietly offering to help. Cleaning up is an easy enough job which Shiro doesn’t need help with, but he lets Keith anyway, hoping it will be enough to satisfy Keith’s desire. It doesn’t. Once the kitchen is clean, Keith follows Shiro outside and accompanies him as he makes the rounds to feed the animals, sticking as close to him as a shadow. To his immense surprise, Keith spends the entire day with Shiro curiously watching as Shiro harvests snap peas and corn, and excitedly picks berries which he eats faster than he puts in his basket. 

It’s not just the more fun aspects that Keith stays for either. The next day when Shiro has to dig up an entire vegetable plot to get it ready for the late summer planting season, Keith is right beside him, quietly requesting his own shovel. He doesn’t even complain or balk when they have to lay down half a truck of manure that leaves them both smelling, quite literally, like shit.

Day after day Keith sticks by Shiro, observing and helping. It’s a revelation for Shiro who has always been a man of routine, to find how easily Keith fits into it. 

Keith’s inexperienced with farm work and animals, but his determination, eagerness to learn and incredible competency more than make up for it. Most of the time Shiro only has to show him something once before Keith’s got it down pat. Three days in to being Shiro’s unofficial right hand, and he’s already learned how to tack up Ulaz (and boy does Shiro appreciate the help there, tacking up a horse one-handed is not the easiest thing in the world, and Shiro’s not exactly a fan of having to use his teeth when he does it alone), or repairing the wire fencing around the chicken coop. He learns how to manage the goats, even if he spends half the time running away from Lance, and Kaltenecker takes to him like sunshine. The only thing Keith’s not good at it is telling the difference between weeds and fledgling crops, something Shiro learns the hard way when an entire row of newly sprouted shallots disappears.

The days are long but the weeks are short, and it takes Shiro by surprise one day to realize they’re halfway into August already.

Eventually Keith does resume repairs on the spaceship, though rather than stay away the entire day like he was before, he only sneaks off for an hour or two while Shiro makes dinner, always returning just before the sun begins to set. He never talks about how the repairs are going and Shiro doesn’t ask. Not because he doesn’t care, but because giving voice to the reality that Keith’s time will end, maybe one day soon, is too much for Shiro to stomach.

He spent so long sure he didn’t need anyone, that he never let himself think about whether he _wanted_ someone.

Shiro knows that when Keith leaves he can manage the farm. He’s done it for two years and he can do it again. The help Keith provides makes the work go by faster for sure, and leaves Shiro with lazy afternoons with nothing to do. Afternoons he fills by sitting on the porch with Keith and teaching him to read, or sneaking away into the house while Atlas is playing in the yard to take turns fucking each other senseless. When Keith is gone Shiro won’t have those extra hours, but then again, he won’t have Keith either. 

Somewhere between the last summer harvest and preparing for the new planting season—turning the compost, tidying the plants and finalizing his planting list—Keith finds his way into Shiro’s room. It was never purposeful to keep him out, but the truth is, Shiro never did invite him in. Their fucking always took place in Keith’s room, or the couch, or the kitchen or, well—anywhere Atlas wasn’t. Keith is so fiercely independent that Shiro was too scared to risk offering something that Keith might turn down. But one night after a particularly long and grueling day of labor on the farm they’re both bone-deep exhausted and share a shower in a Shiro’s room. Instead of heading downstairs once he’s got his pajamas on, Keith makes his way to Shiro’s bed and wraps himself around Shiro—warmer than any blanket could ever be.

The next night he does the same. Some nights they stay up too late kissing and fucking, other nights Shiro falls asleep with his head pillowed on Keith’s chest with Atlas wedged up against his back—lulled to sleep by the sound of Keith’s steady heartbeat. 

By the time Shiro’s transplanting the carrot saplings from the greenhouse to the ground and sowing the onion and beetroot, Keith’s presence is solidified in such a way that Shiro can’t remember what life was like before he crash landed. Keith’s mug—because that’s how Shiro thinks of the big red mug Keith favors—sits beside Shiro’s on the counter by the coffee pot. His toothbrush resides in the cup on the sink in Shiro’s bathroom, and all of Keith’s clothing finds its way into Shiro’s room. Everywhere Shiro looks there are little signs of Keith’s presence—his knife on the coffee table, his journal and pencils on the end table near the left side of the couch where he likes to sit curled up while he writes or draws. Shiro’s curiosity about what exactly Keith adds in his journal almost nightly is visceral, but it’s a question he doesn’t give voice to again. He asked once a week or so after Keith had arrived, around the third night he’d caught him scribbling in it, but Keith had shut down. Shiro likes to think they’ve gotten much closer since then, that perhaps it’s something Keith might share, but the truth is Shiro’s not brave enough to do anything that might risk the harmony between them.

Before Shiro knows it, the leaves begin to turn—the sweeping avenue of trees that line his property awash in golds and reds as the trees in the apple orchard ripen enough for picking. Across the farm his crops bloom and grow and by the time the pumpkins have taken over the far field near the barn, Keith’s hair is long enough that most days he ties it back in a little ponytail that makes him so devastatingly handsome Shiro sometimes forgets to breathe when he looks at him. A ponytail which Shiro takes great delight in undoing each night before they fall into bed, his hand sliding into Keith’s soft locks as their bodies slide together. 

Even Shiro’s therapist takes notice, commenting on the happiness radiating off him in waves over their Zoom sessions on the first of the month. Shiro laughs, biting back the _thanks, finding an alien lover has done wonders_. Shiro knows he could tell him about meeting someone, but he doesn’t—afraid if he reveals what he has now, it’ll make the loss even harder when it's gone.

Day by day things stay the same, yet somehow everything changes.

In the blink of an eye, Keith goes from a stranger to someone Shiro knows he could spend his life with. There’s just the small fact that Keith still departs every day to repair his ship, and Shiro knows that one day Keith will come home and give Shiro the news he’s been dreading—that it’s time for him to move on and explore Earth like he’s been dreaming. It’s a reality that Shiro knows is inevitable, but which he avoids thinking about as much as possible.

Shiro is happy. Happier than he’s ever been in his entire life. 

He spends the late afternoons watching Keith chase Atlas across the grass as the sun begins to set, soaking up the last rays of the golden hour and knowing that this small quiet life is everything he’s ever wanted. Sometimes he even lets himself get lost in daydreams where the last pages of their story end differently—where someone like Shiro gets a happily ever after. It’s a fantasy, but it gives Shiro comfort on the nights where he can’t sleep—nights spent laying awake in the dark holding Keith close, too afraid to fall asleep and wake up to find this has all been a dream.

Keith is precious and fierce and curious and bold and capable and beautiful in ways that leave Shiro breathless. He’s the greatest person Shiro has ever known. And one day he is going to leave. 

One day he is going to leave, and Shiro’s not sure if he will be able to pick up the pieces.

* * *

Atlas whines, tail wagging as he sits at Shiro’s feet.

“You already ate dinner,” Shiro tells him, giving the rice a nice stir—the scent of toasting rice and butter filling the kitchen as he browns it.

Again Alas whines, letting out a soft bark. 

“Fine, but only one mushroom. They’re not good for you if you eat too many,” Shiro says, resting his spoon on the counter and grabbing one of the larger sautéed mushrooms off the plate beside him. He tosses it and sure enough Atlas inhales it in one go, immediately turning his puppy eyes on Shiro.

“Oh no, don’t try that on me again. You had one as a treat, and that’s it. I’m sorry, buddy. Besides, these are for the risotto.”

Shiro’s not sure if Atlas really understands, but he at least stops barking, though he doesn’t move from Shiro's side. Then again, he usually stays glued to Shiro’s side while he cooks, hoping for scraps despite being fed top-of-the-line organic grain free dog food that costs more than Shiro spends on food for himself. Atlas is completely spoiled, but it’s Shiro’s fault so he only has himself to blame.

“I think Keith is gonna really like this one,” Shiro says, finding himself talking to Atlas now more than ever when Keith is away. “It’s not complicated, but my grandma always said risotto was special because of all the attention you have to pay for it. You have to really care about what you’re making.”

Atlas says nothing, because of course he wouldn’t—he’s a dog. Shiro likes to tell him anyway, slowly adding in a ladle of the warmed vegetable stock before quickly resuming his stirring. He repeats the action over and over, more grateful than ever for the hard work around the farm that makes fifteen minutes straight of stirring no problem.

He’s only got two more ladles of broth left when he hears the clatter of footsteps on the back porch, followed by the door slamming open.

“You’re early,” Shiro says without looking up. “Lucky for you, dinner’s a quick one though.”

“Shiro.”

“Let me guess, you’re starving,” Shiro laughs. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a loaf of that French bread you like in the oven to go with the risotto and—”

“Shiro,” Keith interrupts, tone sharp enough that it draws Shiro’s attention from the creamy pan of risotto in front of him and over to Keith who is still standing in the doorway—his hair astray and his hand on the knob. There’s a wild look in his eyes that Shiro has never seen before.

“What is it, Keith?”

“I did it,” Keith all but whispers.

“You did what?” Shiro asks, brain firing two cylinders too slow and the wooden spoon still in his hand. Atlas sees the open door as an opportunity and escapes. Shiro doesn’t call after him, too focused on Keith and knowing Atlas will wander back in half an hour, muddy and happy.

“My ship,” Keith explains, stepping into the kitchen and shutting the door behind him. “It is repaired.”

The spoon clatters to the floor, bits of mushroom risotto hitting Shiro’s sock and the linoleum floor. Guilt assaults Shiro that his gut reaction is devastation. Keith’s standing there looking so damn proud, and Shiro isn’t happy for him. He knows he should be happy for Keith, but he can’t muster up the feelings. 

“That’s amazing, Keith,” Shiro breathes, hoping Keith’s too excited to pay attention to his own heart which is hammering in his chest.

“It will fly, Shiro,” Keith exclaims, still thrumming with excitement. He grabs Shiro’s hand and laughs. “I did it.”

“You did it,” Shiro echoes, giving Keith’s hand a squeeze. “I’m so proud of you. I knew you could. You can do anything.”

The words are easy to get out because they’re the truth. Shiro is so damn proud of Keith and it’s only that pride keeping him from breaking down in the kitchen. He never had a single doubt that Keith could fix his ship. He just selfishly hoped it would take longer—so much longer. He’s had Keith for nearly four months now and it’s not enough. A lifetime doesn’t feel like it would be enough.

Shiro knows he should ask Keith when he’s leaving or where he’ll go first. Keith deserves that excitement and support. Except, Shiro can’t do it. Not yet. He needs to pretend that this isn’t happening, just for a little longer. The smell of the risotto burning hits Shiro’s nose and he can’t even care about his ruined dinner. He drops Keith’s hand only long enough to flip off the burner and the oven before returning his attention to Keith.

His heart is racing, the blood rushing to his ears, and Shiro attempts to stave off the mounting panic the only way he knows how—by touching Keith. By grounding himself in the reality that Keith is still here with him. At least for now. Keith is still here and if this might be the last time Shiro gets to see him— _touch him_ —then he needs to make the most of it.

“What are you doing?” Keith asks, eyes widening as Shiro drops to his knees.

“I’m so proud of you,” Shiro repeats. He won’t lie to Keith, but he can’t give him the truth either. He won’t tarnish Keith’s moment like that. So he gives him what he can, gives him the praise he deserves and hopefully a sweet memory of Shiro for when he’s gone.

“Oh,” Keith breathes, color rising on his cheekbones. He’s so pretty when he blushes.

“I want to touch you,” Shiro whispers, bumping his face against Keith’s stomach. All it takes is Shiro’s hand grazing down Keith’s hip before Keith’s dick begins to harden in his joggers. 

“Shiro,” Keith exhales, voice breathy. He’s aroused already, from the sight of Shiro on his knees and a hand on his waist. Even if Shiro couldn’t see his growing dick print, he can hear it in the low pitch of Keith’s voice. Keith’s so easy to turn on, so easy to please—just a single touch from Shiro and he turns eager and needy. Gone are the fumbling days where Shiro was nervous to touch Keith, unsure of what he was doing or what Keith might like best. 

Shiro knows now—knows exactly how to touch Keith. He knows what places make Keith quiver and whine, or what places to touch to make Keith purr so loud his chest rattles with the force of it. He wants to hear that now. He wants to feel Keith’s hand in his hair, to feel the rumble of Keith’s pleasure.

Without wasting a second, Shiro gets his fingers under Keith’s waistband, unsurprised when Keith makes a trilling sound and beats Shiro to it—shoving his pants down to his ankles to leave him standing there with his dick out. His dick, which is hanging heavy between his legs, the knot swollen and the length flushed a pale lavender. 

“Beautiful,” Shiro says, his fingers wrapping around Keith’s left thigh as he opens his mouth and takes in the tip.

Keith inhales sharply, hips flying forward. Shiro doesn’t mind. He likes the way it feels, likes the heavy weight of Keith’s thick dick on his tongue and the needy way Keith fucks into his mouth. Even at his most eager and desperate, Keith is always careful, thrusting his hips slowly as he tries to hold back. 

Shiro doesn’t want him to.

Abruptly Shiro pulls back, Keith’s dick falling from his lips and bouncing in the air. A whine escapes Keith’s lips as he turns confused eyes on Shiro, clearly unsure why he’s stopped.

“Come on, Starboy, fuck my mouth.”

A high pitched keening sound comes from Keith as his hand fists in Shiro’s hair. Keith clearly likes the idea. Quite a lot, if the way his dick leaks is any indication, but still he hesitates.

“You would enjoy it?” he asks, his worry for Shiro’s comfort so clear. 

“Yes,” Shiro whispers, his own dick achingly hard as Keith’s thumb drags over his bottom lip. His lip trembles with the unsaid words, with the ache of trying to leave Keith with a memory of him so vivid he won’t forget.

“I would enjoy it too,” Keith breathes, gently opening Shiro’s mouth and guiding his dick back inside.

Shiro has no idea who moans louder when Keith returns his hands to Shiro’s hair, fisting them in tight as he rocks his hips. Shiro breathes through his nose, opening his jaw as wide as it'll go as the thick base of Keith’s dick nudges against his lips. It’s not enough to get his lips all the way around it, so Shiro moves his hand there, wrapping his fingers around the tender flesh and giving it a squeeze as he sucks. This time it’s definitely Keith who is louder, his hips snapping forward hard enough that it’s only his hands in Shiro’s hair that keep Shiro from slipping backward.

Keith’s so close to letting go, but he’s still holding back—a quiver in his hands as he tries to keep his sounds inside. He’s always like that—quiet at first until his moans and purrs slowly increase in volume and he can’t hold them in any longer. There’s nothing Shiro loves more than that moment Keith lets go—when his teeth sharpen and his eyes slit and his purr fills the room, and Shiro knows without a shred of doubt that Keith feels good. He’s pretty sure Keith sometimes tries to hide his more Galra features, but Shiro loves them—loves the way Keith trills with Shiro scratches his back or the way his teeth get fanged with he’s fucking Shiro. He likes the growls Keith makes when he rides Shiro, his hair around his face 

Eager to help Keith reach that point, Shiro gives the knot another firm squeeze before letting his fingers move down to gather some of the slick already leaking from Keith’s body and smearing it between his fingers, then he moves them back to twist and glide around the swollen knot. The sound Keith makes is nothing short of primal, his movements erratic as he fucks into Shiro’s mouth in short thrusts as if he wants to go deeper but can’t bear to remove his dick from Shiro’s mouth.

It’s only when Shiro can barely breathe that he pulls back, shoving his nose into Keith’s hip as he pants.

“Good Shiro,” Keith praises, and it's Shiro’s turn to flush. The wave of arousal that hits him at those two simple words is so swift and encompassing he doesn’t even have time to think about the sound he makes as he buries his face in the soft flesh of Keith’s stomach and moans. 

Keith trills, clearly pleased with himself. He accidentally discovered Shiro’s enjoyment at being praised a few weeks ago when he’d complimented a vegetable quiche Shiro made and Shiro had ended up breaking a plate. It’s been a wild ride since then as Keith attempts to sneak in little bits of praise for the way Shiro mops the floor or kneads the bread. This is the first time he’s ever said it during sex though, and Shiro is pretty sure if Keith does it again he might lose his damn mind.

“You enjoy being good?” Keith asks, right hand smoothing down the side of Shiro’s face—knuckles against his cheek.

Shiro nods, nuzzling his face into Keith’s thick treasure trail. He likes it so much he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It almost makes him want to cry, being teased with something like this—as arousing as it is revealing—right before Keith leaves. 

“For you,” Shiro murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the purple stripe at Keith’s lower belly. 

The trilling gets louder as Keith’s fingers move lower, caressing the side of his throat. “My good Shiro.”

A broken-off sob makes its way out of Shiro’s throat as he drops his head and opens his mouth, swallowing Keith down fast enough to choke just so he won’t say the words trying to claw their way out — _yours, I’m yours._

It only takes a few bobs of his head and twists of his hand before Keith is coming without warning, hot spurts down the back of Shiro’s throat as Shiro sucks him dry. Keith all but drapes himself over Shiro, hands stroking his hair and down his neck and even across his shoulder as he rocks his hips and purrs.

Only when Keith is spent does he slump down to his knees, dick still out and face awash in bliss as he rubs his cheek against Shiro’s. Shiro’s not sure if it’s a Galra thing or a Keith thing, but at this point he’s starting to find it just as soothing as Keith clearly does.

“We do not usually have sex before dinner,” Keith exhales, breathless and a little soft as he practically crawls into Shiro’s lap.

Multiple responses filter through Shiro’s mind.

_I didn’t know if we’d get a later._

_I’m sorry._

_I love you._

What he says is something else entirely.

“Fuck me.”

Keith pulls back, his hands still smoothing down over Shiro’s chest. He cocks his head to the side, his ears twitching as he eyes Shiro. He must know, must be able to hear the way Shiro’s heart beats hard and fast. Shiro wonders if he has any idea of how it beats for him. If he did, would he still be leaving?

“Please,” Shiro whispers. Keith’s surprise is palpable, and Shiro can’t blame him. He’s never begged. Not like this.

“Shiro—”

“Fuck me, Keith,” he repeats. He doesn’t beg again, but it’s there in his tone. 

Keith hesitates, ears alert and bottom lip pulled between his teeth. There’s an awareness dawning in his eyes, but Shiro can’t do this, cant have this conversation yet. He’s not ready. He doesn’t think he will ever be ready to lose Keith. Maybe it’s selfish, but he needs this, needs to be touched and loved by Keith one last time.

It won’t be enough, but it’ll be something.

“I need you,” Shiro whispers, too far gone to be embarrassed about how needy he sounds.

The words must affect Keith because one second he’s staring at Shiro intently as if he’s looking for something, and the next he’s slamming his lips into Shiro’s and kissing him like he needs Shiro to breathe. It’s not soft or sweet—it’s filthy and desperate, and Shiro wants more. He _needs_ more.

Pulling Keith back with him, Shiro lays back on the floor, grateful now more than ever that he’s a bit of a cleaning fanatic. He never thought his need to mop every day would come in handy for having for sex on the kitchen floor, but Shiro’s life has been full of nothing but surprises these last few months.

“This is not soft,” Keith mutters between kisses.

“Don’t care. Fuck me,” Shiro gets out, struggling to get his own shirt off without breaking the kiss.

“Let me help,” Keith whispers, pulling back.

Shiro nods, swallowing down the words that are so close to spilling out he’s nearly choking on them. Keith grabs the hem of Shiro’s shirt, tugging it up as Shiro sits up just enough to make it easier. Keith helps with the pants and shoes too, ridding himself of the rest of his clothing so that there’s nothing left between.

The floor is cold and hard at his back and Shiro likes it. He doesn’t want this to feel like a dream. He wants to feel it, wants to remember every second.

The room is quiet as Shiro’s fingertips dance around Keith’s hip and down the curve of his ass to slip inside, some of the slick dripping out as he spreads him open. Above him Keith groans, his hands braced on either side of Shiro’s shoulders and his head thrown back, mouth hanging open on a quiet little moan as Shiro twists two fingers inside until his hand is as slick and wet as Keith, then he moves those same fingers down to his own ass, spreading his legs wide as he nudges his pointer finger against his rim. 

It’s entirely different than touching Keith, whose body is relaxed and open, and it takes a bit of stroking and massaging before the first finger slips in. 

Shiro’s never been very noisy when he touches himself, used to stifling back the sounds he wants to make. Even living alone he got used to trying not to wake up Atlas. He doesn’t keep his noises in this time, letting out a deep sigh as he stretches his arm as much as he can to get the finger in deeper. It feels good to let the sound out, better than he could’ve imagined. So he does it again. The second time it’s less of a sigh and more of a moan as he adds another finger. Shiro’s always enjoyed this, always liked the way it felt to be stretched and full, but the anticipation of knowing Keith’s dick will soon replace his own fingers takes it to another level.

Above him Keith’s eyes are intense, the pupils speckled with yellow as his eyes track over Shiro’s face. Somehow Keith simply watching Shiro prepare himself feels even more erotic than if Keith were the one touching him. Keith’s gaze is piercing and intense, and Shiro’s entire body flushes with arousal. Keith looks at him like he wants to devour him and Shiro’s never felt so wanted, so beautiful, as he does when Keith looks at him.

“Want your dick,” Shiro groans, two fingers shoved up his ass as he squirms for more. It’s not enough. He could use his entire fist and it wouldn’t be enough because it’s not what he wants splitting him open—it's not Keith.

“You have not prepared as usual. I do not wish to hurt you,” Keith whispers, his voice low and gravelly as he strokes back the long bits of hair sticking to Shiro’s forehead. It’s clear the words are taking a lot of concentration to get out and it makes Shiro love him more. Which is the last thing he needs to be thinking about right now. If Keith is too gentle, Shiro’s going to break. 

“I’m okay,” Shiro insists. “You can—”

“No,” Keith says, shaking his head. Keith’s hand disappears from Shiro’s forehead and moves back behind his own body. Shiro’s got a pretty good idea of what Keith is up to and his suspicions are confirmed when Keith’s hand moves down to his ass. He pushes Shiro’s hand out of the way and positions his own slicked up fingers at Shiro’s entrance. 

Keith’s fingers are smaller than Shiro’s and the first two slip in easily, so slick and warm that Shiro’s arching off the floor trying to get more.

“I make you feel good,” Keith says, the same way he says everything else—as a fact. 

Shiro is going to miss him so fucking much it already hurts and Keith’s not even gone.

“Yes,” Shiro agrees, slamming his eyes shut when Keith adds a third finger, stretching him wide. Keith’s fingers might not be as thick as Shiro’s, but he sure as hell knows how to use them. It’s torture—pure exquisite torture. 

Part of Shiro wants to shut his eyes, to stave off the feelings rising. He doesn’t. He keeps his eyes wide open, gaze focused on the way Keith looks leaning over him as he fingers Shiro open. His hair has mostly fallen out of its small ponytail, little bits flying in every direction to frame his face—sharp jawline and even sharper eyes softened by the way he’s looking at Shiro. His skin is tan from weeks spent in the sun with Shiro, and there are even a few freckles that have popped up on his shoulders, much to the confusion of Keith and delight of Shiro. He’s relaxed and warm, and the most beautiful thing Shiro’s ever seen.

“Good?” Keith asks, twisting his fingers up to brush across Shiro’s prostate.

“Nngh,” Shiro grunts.

Keith’s chest puffs up with pride and he does it again, stroking over the same spot . Keith was fascinated the day he found Shiro’s prostate—something Galra and half-Galra apparently don’t have. He spent so long touching it that first time Shiro had actually cried, coming untouched as he clawed at the sheets. Keith’s done that twice more since, and seems delighted to be able to reduce Shiro to a quivering mess.

When Keith does it a third time Shiro can do nothing but moan, arching off the floor as his hand flies out to Keith’s head, trembling fingers stroking through Keith’s hair.

“I enjoy the way you look when I touch you,” Keith says, making Shiro shudder. 

Keith’s so blunt, even during sex, and Shiro is so damn weak for it. Shiro wants to tell Keith he enjoys it too—enjoys being looked at, enjoys being touched—but he knows if he opens his mouth to say anything that everything will come spilling out. Keith strokes and and strokes over the sensitive knot of muscle, fucking his fingers in and out of Shiro until Shiro’s the one loose and dripping.

“I believe you are ready,” Keith says, and Shiro would laugh if he wasn’t too busy moaning.

Through a haze of arousal Shiro watches as Keith gathers more slick, smearing it over his dick before laying his hands on Shiro’s thighs and spreading them wide. 

“I wish to make you scream,” Keith asserts, lifting Shiro’s leg so that his knee rests over Keith’s shoulder.

Shiro laughs because if he doesn’t he might cry. Keith’s sexy and funny and bold, and Shiro loves him.

 _Shiro loves him_.

“My good Shiro,” Keith murmurs as the tip of his dick nudges at the relaxed ring of muscles at Shiro’s entrance. 

He’s not so much trying to get his dick inside as he is smearing the slick around—coating Shiro’s ass in the bit of precome already leaking out of the tip of his dick in an attempt to get Shiro as wet and messy as possible. The first time Keith did this, he’d blushed furiously when Shiro asked about it. Keith had flushed a pretty purple as he muttered something about Galra and marking. His blush had abated pretty quickly when Shiro told him it was hot. He hadn’t been lying either. Truth is, he likes how messy sex is with Keith—loves that one of them always ends up dripping and sticky and drenched in the scent of sex. Especially when it’s this way, when Shiro allows himself to pretend that Keith covering Shiro in his own slick is something possessive and personal, and not just a biological itch to scratch because he’s part Galra.

“Keith,” Shiro groans, his name the only word Shiro feels capable of speaking.

Keith moves forward, Shiro nearly bent in half as the width of Keith’s dick stretches him open, pressing in until the base of his knot nudges at Shiro’s entrance. They haven’t gotten it all the way in yet, though not for lack of trying. A pang of disappointment assaults Shiro as he realizes they won’t get the chance to keep trying now. A disappointment that has nothing to do with the sex act itself—not that Shiro isn’t eager to find out if his body can take it, because, god, he is—but because he loves sex with Keith. He likes when it's slow and sweet, likes when it's fast and messy, likes when it's exploratory and curious and goes a little wrong as they figure out what they each want and are capable of.

Sex feels good, and it’s fun, but it’s also painfully intimate and revealing, and Shiro cant fathom ever trusting someone else the way he trusts Keith.

“Dhryu,” Keith murmurs, the unfamiliar word falling from his lips as he rocks his hips.

It’s on the tip of Shiro’s tongue to ask Keith what it means, but then he’s pulling back and thrusting back in at just the right angle to brush over Shiro’s prostate and all coherent thought leaves Shiro. His world narrows down to the way Keith’s hands feel wrapped around his biceps—the tips of his nails digging into tender flesh. He focuses on the way Keith looks panting and aroused—cheeks flushed and stomach muscles clenching as he fucks into Shiro with a single-minded focus.

“Fuck,” Shiro grits out, not usually one for cursing but unable to help himself.

It feels so good. Not that he’s surprised. Keith spent weeks learning every inch of Shiro’s body and it’s a knowledge he’s put to use every single time he fucks Shiro. As if reading Shiro’s mind, Keith sits back on his heels, Shiro’s leg falling down Keith’s shoulder to rest in the crook of Keith’s arm as Keith’s hands move to Shiro’s thighs.

“So big,” Keith utters.

Shiro nearly bites off the end of his tongue. Keith isn’t shy about his love of Shiro’s thighs and Shiro, well—he loves how much Keith loves them. Keith’s always complimenting them, sitting on them, sucking on them. Hell, last week he’d even pinned Shiro down on the bed and fucked them. Under Keith’s gaze, Shiro feels beautiful.

Keith stops his thrusting to tilt his neck, pressing a chaste kiss to the inside of Shiro’s knee and then letting his canines drag up the inside of Shiro’s thigh, leaving faint pink marks across it in their wake. 

“Harder,” Shiro chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut. He can’t watch as Keith repeats the action, firmer this time. It’s not enough pressure to really hurt, just enough to leave a little mark. Shiro wonders if the marks will last even after Keith’s gone. Now there’s a mark on Shiro’s body to match the invisible mark Keith’s left on his heart. The difference is that only one of the marks will fade.

Before Shiro can overthink too much, Keith’s pretty mouth sucks hard on the juncture where his thigh meets his hip as Keith’s fingers slip into his ass and Shiro can do nothing but moan—the sound all but ripped from his throat. It’s another thing Shiro’s gotten used to—the way Keith is so curious during sex, pausing mid-fuck to see how wet he’s got Shiro, how relaxed. It makes Shiro’s heart race and his blood rush in his ears. Keith touches him like he's the only person in the world,— _looks_ at him like he’s the only person in the world. Shiro knows he’s probably just seeing what he wants. Keith’s his first, after all, and he has no idea what Galra are like with other Galra. Keith’s mentioned marking before, and Shiro can only assume it’s simply something all Galra enjoy during sex.

It’s hard for Shiro to compartmentalize his feelings and remind himself not to read too much into every touch or look from Keith with Keith sucking hard enough to leave marks, drawing a path across the flat of Shiro’s belly in purple marks—a direct path to his dick, which Keith laps at with his tongue. He’s not sucking Shiro’s dick, just playing with it—nudging his nose against it and scenting him as he runs his fingers around the rim of Shiro’s ass over and over, stretching him wide.

Shiro’s got no idea what exactly Keith is doing—exploring his body, maybe. It’s nice and Shiro lets his brain shut off, not worrying about the what or why of Keith’s touch, and simply focusing on the sensations—fingers joined together as they move in circles opening him wide, then more fingers as Keith’s other slicked up hand joins in the finger fucking. 

“Oh,” Shiro exhales, as more fingers make their way in. Full, he’s so full.

Keith’s never done this before, and it’s different and new and a little strange at first. At least for a few seconds until Keith starts sucking Shiro’s dick as he resumes the circular motion with both hands now. Blindly Shiro wonders how many fingers are in his ass, can’t count even if he tries. All he knows is how blissed out he feels—body thrumming with pleasure as Keith stretches him wider than he ever has before. It’s unlike anything Shiro’s ever felt, a stretch and fullness that makes his legs shake and his heart thud so loud Keith must know exactly how he’s affecting Shiro.

Abruptly Keith pulls his fingers out, and Shiro is too far gone to be embarrassed by the way he whines at the loss, his muscles gaping as he arches off the floor. Empty. He feels empty.

“Shhh,” Keith soothes, a kiss to Shiro’s forehead.

“Wha—” except Shiro doesn’t get a chance to finish the thought because then Keith’s gliding his dick back inside of Shiro and he doesn’t stop when he bottoms out and the swollen knot nudges against Shiro’s perineum. No, he pushes. Keith rocks his hips and growls and Shiro can barely string two thoughts together before his rim stretches further, his body taking Keith in.

_In._

Keith’s knot is in his body.

One of them screams and Shiro genuinely has no idea if it's him or Keith. He’s so full he feels as if his body is split in two, except it doesn’t hurt like he thought it might. It feels good, better than good. It feels as if someone is taking straight serotonin and injecting it into Shiro’s brain through his ass. He knows that thought doesn’t even make sense, but there’s a five-inch diameter alien knot in his ass, so it's really not his fault.

Shiro’s pretty sure this must be what heaven feels like. Nothing in the world could possibly feel better than Keith fully seated inside of him as Keith nuzzles into Shiro’s neck. Or so he thinks. Then Keith begins to roll his hips in circles, almost the way he’d been with his fingers. It’s not a thrust but a circular motion that highlights just how stretched his ass is. As Keith moves his hips he trills, the sound so clear it sends a chill up Shiro’s spine.

“Dhryu,” Keith whispers, repeating the unfamiliar word as he rubs his cheek against the side of Shiro’s neck. Shiro’s curiosity about the word is almost enough to ask. Almost. If he were capable of coherent thoughts or sentences, which he’s really fucking not.

All Shiro knows is pleasure.

Keith is everywhere, kissing the side of his cheek and his lips as his hands strokes down Shiro’s sides. He murmurs words that Shiro is too far gone to pay attention to as he starts to rock his hips. The knot slips out and Shiro nearly cries, digging his heels into Keith’s back in an unabashedly desperate attempt to get him back inside.

“I was not sure this would please you,” Keith whispers, slowly slipping back inside. It doesn’t seem fair that Keith can think and talk when Shiro feels as if his soul is being ripped from his body, the most exquisite pleasure he’s ever experienced returning to him as Keith thrusts. There’s almost no resistance this time as the knot slips back inside. Just to be sure, Shiro digs his heels in harder.

“You enjoy me,” Keith marvels, eyes tracing over Shiro in a uniquely Keith way—piercing and curious and unwavering.

 _I love you_ , Shiro wants to say, only managing to choke back the words by pulling Keith down into a forceful kiss so the words come out as a moan instead which Keith swallows down eagerly.

Keith all but melts into the kiss, his hips rocking back and forth in shallow thrusts. He moves slow, only pulling his dick out half an inch or so—not enough to dislodge the knot completely, but enough for it to move. Enough for the swell of it to stimulate his rim over and over until Shiro can feel the tears pooling at the corner of his eyes as he struggles to control his breathing.

His every nerve ending feels lit up like a sparkler on the Fourth of July—his body tingling as the arousal burns through his body. He’s so close. He opens his mouth to tell Keith he won’t last much longer, but nothing comes out. Keith’s hands are roaming over his chest as he fucks him, the purring in Keith’s chest so loud it rattles in Shiro’s body in tune with the sound of his racing heart.

_Thump, thump. Purr. Thump thump. Purr. Thump thump. Purr.”_

It’s almost too much. Physically. Emotionally. Everything. _Everything._

Shiro’s never felt so goddamn much in his entire life. 

Keith speaks again, this time it's more Galran that Shiro is too far gone to understand. Keith’s taught him the basic alphabet and a few words, but Shiro’s too turned on to try figure out what Keith is telling him. Unable to make heads or tails of the softly whispered words, it’s all too easy for Shiro to imagine the words are the things he wishes Keith was saying—words of praise and longing, of _love_.

Just imagining those things proves to be too much, and Keith’s melodic voice washes over him as his release hits him—intense and overwhelming. 

Everything is just so overwhelming.

Shiro’s coming harder than he ever has, his vision blurring as Keith’s thrusts increase. Keith’s still murmuring Galran but the tone has taken on a desperate edge, the words sharper somehow as he pulls all the way out and slams back in. Shiro can’t speak, can barely breathe, as his hand scrambles to find something to hold. Keith seems to know, he always knows. Familiar fingers linking with his as Keith presses their joined hands into the center of Shiro’s chest and continues thrusting—once, twice, and then Keith’s throwing his head back and letting out a yell that sets Shiro’s body shaking.

Hazily, Shiro’s aware that Keith is still speaking as fingers stroke through his hair, but the most he can manage is a feeble grunt. The hand in his hair disappears and Shiro nearly cries, hand flying out to try and find Keith but it only meets air. The sound he makes is nothing short of a sob.

“I am here,” Keith says, voice loud and clear as the kitchen faucet is turned on. 

A second later Keith returns, this time with a warm, wet cloth which he strokes over Shiro’s body—careful strokes over his thighs and up his hips. Keith disappears twice more for a few seconds, each time returning with a fresh, warm cloth which he uses to clean every inch of Shiro, even the parts not covered in slick or come. It’s soothing, and Shiro keeps his eyes shut, content to float in the haze of post-coital bliss. He and Keith have had sex. A lot of sex. A lot of it is intense too, but none of it has ever come close to this. Shiro’s ass is deliciously sore, his limbs weak, and his heart still racing.

He only opens his eyes when he feels Keith’s arms slipping under his knees and his back, and he’s being lifted off the floor as if he’s light as a feather and not one hundred and eighty pounds of muscle. Shiro’s never been carried quite like this, his head pillowed on Keith’s chest, safe and secure in his arms. It does nothing to abate the racing of his heart. If anything, it doubles.

Reality is trying to creep its way in, and Shiro wants to slam the door in its face.

Keith is holding him. Keith is so close. Keith is warm, his slow steady heartbeats melodic against Shiro’s ear where it rests against Keith’s chest. He’s never felt so safe in his entire life and he doesn’t want it to end. He doesn’t want to lose Keith.

He can’t lose Keith.

As Keith deposits him on the couch, the panic wells up in him when Keith takes a step back.

“Don’t go,” Shiro wails, unable to slow the tears he feels building.

“I am acquiring a blanket. You are shaking,” Keith says, one last touch to his cheek before Keith’s bare feet pad down the hallway to the cupboard where Shiro packed all the blankets away for summer.

It’s not what Shiro means. Not really. He just doesn’t know how to tell Keith.

“This will do,” Keith announces when he comes into the room not a minute later with a stack of blankets—every blanket Shiro owns if he’s not mistaken. Shiro wants to smile at the sight but he doesn’t know how, too close to the brink of breaking down.

“Keith.”

“You will be warm soon,” Keith says, spreading out the extra plush velour blanket on the couch and then sitting on top of it. 

Shiro doesn’t know how to tell him that the reason he can’t stop trembling has nothing to do with the cold. Keith grins, so blissfully unaware of Shiro’s inner turmoil. 

“Closer,” Keith tells him, patting the space between his legs. Shiro wastes no time crawling between them, exhaling a sigh of relief. Once he’s close enough, Keith pulls him closer towards his chest and Shiro all but collapses on top of him.

“Better,” Keith says, though whether it's a statement or a question, Shiro’s not sure. Keith grabs the other blankets off the side of the couch, piling them over Shiro’s back until the weight of the blanket mound soothes Shiro enough that his shaking stops. “Your heart is taking many dobosh to return to normal. Have I overstimulated you?”

Shiro rubs his nose into Keith’s chest, words mumbled. “M’okay.”

“Your okay is not to be trusted,” Keith huffs.

From anyone else, Shiro would bristle. From Keith Shiro knows it’s not meant unkindly but as an observation. He also knows Keith’s not wrong. Shiro still remembers being pulled from the wreckage of his ship, right arm missing and whispering _I’m fine_ as the medics tried to stop the bleeding. It’s a mantra at this point, something Shiro says whether it’s actually true or not. Not because he lies, but because he needs it to be true.

“I’m—”

“No polite,” Keith interrupts. “Only truth.”

A soft laugh falls from Shiro’s lips. It’s so like Keith to say something like that, to cut through all the bullshit in one sentence. It’s one of a million reasons Shiro loves him so much, and one of the main ones why Shiro is so sure his feelings are not returned. If they were, surely Keith would have said something by now. It’s not as if there’s been any shortage of opportunities. The laugh turns to a sob pretty quickly as the reality of the situation hits Shiro.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” Shiro chokes out.

“You are going to miss me,” Keith repeats, his fingers tracing idle circles on Shiro’s scalp.

There’s no taking it back now, no point in pretending this isn’t actually happening.

“Yes, when you leave,” Shiro whispers.

“You…you wish me to leave?” Keith asks, voice unnaturally small.

Shiro’s head shoots up from Keith’s chest so fast he nearly dislodges them from the couch. It’s only Keith’s strong arms around around Shiro that keep them in place—steadying them. Keith’s been good at that from day one.

“No, but I thought...the ship. You’ve been fixing it up to leave.”

Keith’s ears twitch, the expression on his face shifting rapidly from confusion to something else—something Shiro can’t quite place.

“You believed I was fixing my ship to leave you?” His tone is impossible to place, as is the look on his face, but Keith’s fingers are back in Shiro’s hair, smoothing down his scalp and stroking over the back of his neck. “I thought—but perhaps I am wrong.”

“You thought what?” Shiro asks.

Keith's jaw trembles, hand stilling at the back of Shiro’s neck. “The things we do. What do they mean to humans?”

“What do you mean?” Shiro asks.

“In Daibazaal, you may be friendly with others. You may share your food, or even your home with those in need but you do not—” Keith pauses, gathering a breath. “You do not share everything.”

“Oh, the sex.”

Keith shakes his head. “Not the sex. The..the—” he growls, frustrated. “Humans do not have good words in your English. It is harsh and basic. You do not have my words.”

“What are your words?” Shiro whispers, unsure what to make of what is happening. It sure as hell doesn’t feel like a goodbye. 

“The Galra have many names, none more precious than Dhyru.”

“You called me that before, when you, uh…when you—”

“When you took my knot,” Keith finishes, a bit of smugness creeping in.

“Yeah, that,” Shiro laughs, unsure why talking about it still makes him feel like blushing.

“It is how I feel, but…but you are not Galran. You do not have my words. You—”

“Will you tell me what it means?” Shiro asks, resting his hand on Keith’s chest over his heart. Beneath his palm it beats, strong and steady.

Keith nods. “I will try. Your English lacks the beauty of my native language, the nuance. The important thing to know is the Galra do not believe in destiny, we believe in choice. You choose you kin and your clan, you choose fear or bravery and you choose your future. This is the same with mates. When we find someone we are compatible we may have sex, but it is not the choosing.”

“I don’t understand,” Shiro admits.

Keith doesn’t get frustrated, instead he smiles. “You told me once humans believe a first is special. Your virginity is special. This is not the Galra way. It is not the first that matters. We have many firsts in life. But the lasts…those are special.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Shiro thinks he’s beginning to understand.

“Keith.”

“Dhyru is your last,” he whispers. “They are the choice of your heart.”

“And you… _me?_ ” Shiro gasps, barely able to believe what he’s hearing.

“I thought you knew,” Keith says, hand sliding from Shiro’s hair to cup his cheek. “I believed I was obvious.”

Keith cares about him, maybe even loves him.

“Not to me,” Shiro chokes out, making an embarrassing sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You just…I didn't know. You were always so worried about fixing your ship, and you were talking about exploring and—”

“I wished to fix my ship for you. When you speak of flying there is a joy in your eyes. I wished to give you joy.”

Shiro makes another sound and that one is definitely a sob.

“ _Keith_.”

“Oh no, I have said wrong. I’m sorry I—”

“You’re perfect,” Shiro says through tears, surging up to press a kiss to Keith’s lips. It’s uncoordinated, his limbs still shaky and his balance a bit wonky, but their lips are touching and he can taste the dying rays of sunlight on Keith’s lips, and everything is good and warm.

“You are leaking,” Keith breathes. “I have upset you.”

Shiro shakes his head. “Humans can cry happy tears too. I’m happy, Keith. I’m happy.”

“Because I wish to take you flying?”

“Because you’re you and you’re here and you’re incredible. I was so scared to say the words, couldn’t bear the idea of being rejected, but Keith you must know—”

Keith’s smile is soft as he presses his forehead against Shiro's. “You think I do not know?”

“What do you know?” Shiro asks, unable to stop the quiver of his jaw as he speaks. There’s been so many unsaid words between them, so many wrong assumptions on Shiro’s part. He needs to hear the words now, needs to be sure.

“I know you are a good man,” Keith answers, sitting up a little straighter and taking Shiro with him so he’s essentially seated in his lap. “You are brave and kind and decent. I see you, Shiro. I see how you treat the animals, and the world—how you treat _me_.”

Shiro can feel the tears rolling down his cheeks now, helpless to stop them. Keith swipes a thumb over Shiro’s cheekbone, wiping it away.

“I can smell how your scent changes when I am near, how the scent sweetens when we touch.” Keith’s hand drops from Shiro’s face to his chest, resting his palm over Shiro’s heart. “I hear the way your heart beats for me. I know. I know you care for me. I did not speak the words. English is…it is hard. My words feel clumsy.”

“You words are perfect,” Shiro interjects. “I love the way you speak. I love everything about you.”

Keith’s smile now is nothing short of radiant, a faint blush rising high on his cheeks. “I wish to show you something.”

“Anything,” Shiro says, his heart quite literally skipping a beat. 

“Stay,” Keith whispers, dislodging himself from Shiro. He makes it halfway across the living room before turning around and grinning. Shiro laughs, heart light. He can hardly believe this is really happening. A minute later Keith returns from his room with his journal clutched to his chest, climbing back onto the couch beside Shiro—this time it’s him who ends up in Shiro’s lap. His heavy weight is soothing, settling Shiro’s racing heart as Keith presses the journal into his hands. “Look.”

Look Shiro does. With Keith's help he opens the book, flipping through the pages as Keith holds the cover open for him. The first few pages are the same images Shiro had seen back when he’d first rescued Keith—bits of Galran and doodles. The next few are similar, more words Shiro can’t read and places he doesn’t recognize.

“This is Daibazaal,” Keith tells him, pointing to the spread on the next page—a vast landscape with wild hills and gnarling foliage. It reminds Shiro of the deserts in New Mexico his grandparents took him to see during a summer road trip when he was thirteen.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yes,” Keith agrees, turning the page.

“My mother,” he tells Shiro, many sketches of the same woman filling the next few pages. Her features are striking and so similar to Keith’s.

“You look like her,” Shiro observes. 

Keith’s chest puffs out with unmistakable pride. “She is most beautiful. And strong.”

As he continues to flip the pages, Shiro sees more of Keith’s life back on Daibazaal, doodles of his favorite plants or a herd of strange looking animals, the word Trhreg hastily written in the corner. On and on it goes, until things Shiro knows begin to slip in. There’s a sketch of Ulaz and Kaltenecker, and then pages and pages of the different things in Shiro’s fields—corn stalks and pumpkins and strawberry fields. There are words in Galran written alongside the English names Shiro recalls teaching Keith weeks ago.

When he looks up Keith is biting his bottom lip, though the smile remains. 

“Keep looking,” he whispers.

The sketches become more detailed. A stack of pancakes, Atlas asleep on the kitchen floor, a package of Oreos. To an outsider it might seem random, but to Shiro it’s everything. These are the images of what matters to Keith, of what he loves.

“More,” Keith utters when Shiro gets sidetracked tracing his fingers over a perfectly rendered image of his farmhouse, from the broken shutter on the side window, to his favorite patch of sunflowers blooming beneath the kitchen window.

“Keith.”

“More,” Keith repeats, turning the page.

The last of the pages are all filled with the same image over and over—him. Shiro’s hand shakes as he flips the page to see sketch after sketch of himself. Some are barely scribbles, the outline of his back as he cooks, or Shiro weeding the onion patch. Others are so hyper realistic they almost look like a photo—the sharp line of Shiro’s jaw or the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles. It’s Shiro, rendered over and over in such loving detail it leaves him breathless. His heart thunders in his chest as his eyes roam over the pages, wondering if this is truly what Keith sees when he looks at him.

Quietly Keith flips to the last page, holding it open. It’s the farm in the background, Shiro and Atlas sitting on the porch staring out over the pasture as the last rays of daylight fade from the sky. 

In the corner are four letters that make all the breath leave Shiro’s lungs.

 _Home_.

“When you saved me you said I may stay as long as I need,” Keith said, voice barely above a whisper. “What if I do not wish to leave?”

Shiro’s throat tightens. “I thought you wanted to see the world.”

“I wished to find a place where I belong. My place is with you. If you will have me.”

The words shock Shiro from his passive state, dropping the book in between their bodies in favor of pulling Keith into a bruising kiss. Keith’s chest rattles with a purr as Shiro kisses him, his hand finding purchase in Keith’s hair. He kisses him over and over until his lips are sore. It’s only when he can barely breathe that he pulls back, knocking their foreheads together.

“I want you. For as along as you’ll have me. Stay, please stay. Make this place your home. I love you, Keith. I love you. Please stay.”

This time it’s Keith who cries, small tears slipping from the corner of his eyes as he breathes heavily—a low purr still rumbling from his chest.

“Yes,” Keith answers, voice loud and clear. “I will stay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream about Sheith with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not crying, you're crying.
> 
> Actually I have no idea if anyone else is crying but I definitely am. This fic is so special to my so to everyone who came along for the journey, or those just readying this for the first time, thank you. <3
> 
> Cover art at the end of the epilogue is by [minypark32 on Twitter](https://twitter.com/minypark32/status/1263560096274976769)

**Nine Months Later**

Shiro wakes slowly, his body warm and heavy with sleep—almost too warm. The reason becomes apparent when Shiro cracks open an eye to see no less than three blankets thrown over him which were not there when he laid down. Despite the sheen of sweat on his body, he can’t help but smile as he kicks them off. 

Keith had been horrified to discover how easily humans lost their body heat during his first winter on Earth, especially in the snow. It hadn’t been a problem at night since Keith radiated enough body heat to keep them both warm, especially since he slept wrapped around Shiro’s back, providing enough warmth to keep him toasty all night long. But when Shiro was out tending the animals or accidentally asleep on the couch after a particularly hard day’s work, Keith would look near apologetic if he touched Shiro’s skin and found it freezing, as if he had somehow let Shiro down. It didn’t matter how many times Shiro insisted he was fine, or that getting cold during the winter was a natural biological response for humans. Which meant that Keith spent the long winter months constantly piling Shiro in blankets. It was a bit ridiculous, and a lot sweet. Despite often finding himself a little too warm, he never had the heart to tell Keith, who would purr with pride at being able to take care of Shiro. Which is something else Shiro had found he likes very much. After a lifetime of taking care of himself, it was nice to let Keith do it sometimes, not because he couldn’t handle himself, but because someone else wanted to help.

The only problem now is that winter is long gone. Shiro’s packed away the blankets twice this week already, and both times Keith returns with them looking smug. There’s absolutely no need for them now, not with June fresh on the horizon. Even the last of the late spring snow melted weeks ago, giving way to the beauty of spring. In just a few weeks summer will officially come, along with the first potato harvest of the season. 

Even the roses, foxgloves, and lilacs in the front yard have bloomed so full and lush that Shiro can already smell their sweet scent wafting through the open living room window.

Between the warmth of the room, the burgeoning smells of summer, and the soft tinkling of wind chimes, Shiro is loath to move from his spot on the couch. It’s only the growling in his stomach that makes him throw his legs over the side and move to the kitchen. Atlas and Keith are nowhere to be found but that's no surprise, not with the way the two of them have been sneaking off every day for the last two weeks to check the strawberry fields.

Shiro doesn’t think he’d find a soul alive more excited for first harvests than Keith, and nearly a year on the farm has done nothing to curb his curiosity and excitement. Keith loves everything about farm life—the hard labor, the satisfaction of planting and watching something grow, and most especially, being able to eat the fruits of his labor.

He also really loves Shiro’s jam. A jam which Shiro hasn’t been able to make more of since Keith finished the last jar six months ago.

Keith’s tried to buy strawberries at the grocery store more than once when he sees the plastic clamshells on sale, but Shiro flat out refuses no matter how many times Keith begs. He laughs when Shiro says his jam is only good because it’s made with love, but it's the truth. 

Then there’s the fact that everything Shiro grows just tastes better. He knows where it came from, what helped it grow, and when it was harvested.

Soon the strawberries will be red enough to harvest, and when that day comes Shiro knows between Keith and Atlas and the fifty jars of jam Keith’s already made him promise to make, Shiro won’t get a single berry. He finds he doesn’t mind. He thought the greatest satisfaction in the world would come from growing his own food, but being able to grow and feed his family is something else entirely—something that fills Shiro with a bone-deep sense of satisfaction and peace.

Just thinking about it makes Shiro’s stomach growl. He can already taste sweet cobs of corn roasted over a bonfire that’ll come late in summer, and feel the sweet juice of a homegrown nectarine or watermelon dripping down his chin. All seasons on the farm have something special, but the transition from spring to summer is always Shiro’s favorite—a sense of accomplishment and excitement at the crops sure to come, and the long but satisfying days of work ahead. Days made infinitely better by Keith’s company.

Shiro’s thoughts are interrupted by Atlas’s loud barks and the sound of yelling, and for a split second he panics, sprinting through the kitchen and onto the back porch to see what’s wrong. He’s met with the sight of Atlas leaping through the long grass and Keith running to the house with a wide-eyed smile that has Shiro struck dumb with love.

“Shiro!” Keith hollers as he runs. His hair’s pulled back into a messy bun atop his head, long bits framing his face as he sprints to the house, his unbridled excitement makes him nothing short of radiant. Then again, Keith’s always beautiful.

As Keith nears, Shiro jogs down the back porch steps and across the lawn to meet them—sun on his face and cool grass on his bare feet. He’s barely made it past the chicken coop when Keith slams into him. It’s only Keith’s quick reflexes and deceptively small but strong arms that keep them upright.

“Hi,” Shiro grins, wrapping his arm around Keith and pulling him into a hug. Keith smells like sunshine and fresh air and for a long moment Shiro merely tips his face down to bury it in Keith’s hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and reveling in the embrace.

“Shiro, I got some,” Keith laughs.

“What did you get?” Shiro asks, pulling out of the hug when it becomes clear that Keith might actually implode if he doesn’t get to share what it is that’s got him so worked up. Beside them Atlas barks again, clearly feeding off Keith’s energy as he chases his own tail. Shiro can’t help but laugh, their moods infectious.

“Look,” Keith breathes, reaching his hands into his pockets and pulling out two fistfuls of bright red strawberries then holds them out to Shiro as if he’s brought back gold. “Is it satisfactory for jam?”

Shiro pretends to think it over, humming loudly as Keith vibrates.

“I could probably be persuaded to make some.”

“Now?” Keith asks, practically bouncing on his heels.

Shiro laughs again, not just from Keith’s happiness but his own. He’s happy. So unbelievably happy he sometimes pinches himself to make sure it’s not all some crazy dream. He’s got his farm and the animals and Atlas, but he’s also got a gorgeous alien boyfriend and a home that’s no longer his but _theirs_ and their spaceship out in the barn which they sometimes take out for joy rides in the dead of night ever since Keith got the stealth mode working again a few months ago. 

It’s nothing like the life he once imagined for himself, it’s better.

Everything about it is so much better. It’s Shiro’s life, one he made for himself and chose—a life and a future he and Keith are building together and it’s perfect.

“So?” Keith asks, clearly growing impatient.

“Yeah, Keith. Right now. Let’s go home.”

Keith trills, the sound echoing across the garden as Shiro throws his arm around Keith’s shoulder and pulls him close. Keith slots against his side as if he’s always been there, as if he will _always_ be there.

Together, with Atlas at their side, they make their way home.

[](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/606839955481690118/720754560775356446/EYkHplZX0AI2H-Y.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream about Sheith with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream about Sheith with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)


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